Parable of the
Sower
by Octavia Butler
The odyssey of one woman who is twice as
feeling in a world that has become doubly
dehumanized. The time is 2025; the place is
California, where small walled comunities must
protect themselves from desperate hordes of
scangers and roaming bands of drug addicts.
When one such community is overrun, Lauren
Olamina, an 18-year-old black woman, sets off
on foot, moving north along the dangerous
coastal highways. Lauren is a "sharer," one who
suffers from hyperempathy -- the ability to feel
others' pain as well as her own.
"Butler's spare, vivid prose style invites
comparison with the likes of Kate
Wilhelm and Ursula Le Guin." --Kirkus
"Moving, frightening, funny and eerily
beautiful." --The Washington Post
General Fiction Science Fiction
2024
Prodigy is, at its essence, adaptability and
persistent, positive obsession. Without persistence,
what remains is an enthusiasm of the moment.
Without adaptability, what remains may be
channeled into destructive fanaticism. Without
positive obsession, there is nothing at all.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
by Lauren Oya Olamina
.
Parable of the Sower
1
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2024
I had my recurring dream last night. I guess I should
have expected it. It comes to me when I struggle--
when I twist on my own personal hook and try to
pretend that nothing unusual is happening. It comes
to me when I try to be my father's daughter.
Today is our birthday-- my fifteenth and my father's
fifty-fifth. Tomorrow, I'll try to please him-- him and
the community and God. So last night, I dreamed a
reminder that it's all a lie. I think I need to write about
the dream because this particular lie bothers me so
much.
I'm learning to fly, to levitate myself. No one is
teaching me. I'm just learning on my own, little by
little, dream lesson by dream lesson. Not a very
subtle image, but a persistent one. I've had many
lessons, and I'm better at flying than I used to be. I
trust my ability more now, but I'm still afraid. I can't
quite control my directions yet.
I lean forward toward the doorway. It's a doorway
like the one between my room and the hall. It seems
to be a long way from me, but I lean toward it.
Holding my body stiff and tense, I let go of whatever
I'm grasping, whatever has kept me from rising or
falling so far. And I lean into the air, straining
upward, not moving upward, but not quite falling
down either. Then I do begin to move, as though to
slide on the air drifting a few feet above the floor,
caught between terror and joy.
I drift toward the doorway. Cool, pale light glows
from it. Then I slide a little to the right; and a little
more. I can see that I'm going to miss the door and
hit the wall beside it, but I can't stop or turn. I drift
away from the door, away from the cool glow into
another light.
The wall before me is burning. Fire has sprung from
nowhere, has eaten in through the wall, has begun
to reach toward me, reach for me. The fire spreads. I
drift into it. It blazes up around me. I thrash and
scramble and try to swim back out of it, grabbing
handfuls of air and fire, kicking, burning! Darkness.
Perhaps I awake a little. I do sometimes when the
fire swallows me. That's bad. When I wake up all the
way, I can't get back to sleep. I try, but I've never
been able to.
This time I don't wake up all the way. I fade into the
second part of the dream-- the part that's ordinary
and real, the part that did happen years ago when I
was little, though at the time it didn't seem to matter.
Darkness.
Darkness brightening.
Stars.
Stars casting their cool, pale, glinting light.
"We couldn't see so many stars when I was little,"
my stepmother says to me. She speaks in Spanish,
her own first language. She stands still and small,
looking up at the broad sweep of the Milky Way. She
and I have gone out after dark to take the washing
down from the clothesline. The day has been hot, as
usual, and we both like the cool darkness of early
night. There's no moon, but we can see very well.
The sky is full of stars.
The neighborhood wall is a massive, looming
presence nearby. I see it as a crouching animal,
perhaps about to spring, more threatening than
protective. But my stepmother is there, and she isn't
afraid. I stay close to her. I'm seven years old.
I look up at the stars and the deep, black sky. "Why
couldn't you see the stars?" I ask her. "Everyone can
see them." I speak in Spanish, too, as she's taught
me. It's an intimacy somehow.
"City lights," she says. "Lights, progress, growth, all
those things we're too hot and too poor to bother
with anymore." She pauses. "When I was your age,
my mother told me that the stars-- the few stars we
could see-- were windows into heaven. Windows for
God to look through to keep an eye on us. I believed
her for almost a year." My stepmother hands me an
armload of my youngest brother's diapers. I take
them, walk back toward the house where she has
left her big wicker laundry basket, and pile the
diapers atop the rest of the clothes. The basket is
full. I look to see that my stepmother is not watching
me, then let myself fall backward onto the soft
mound of stiff, clean clothes. For a moment, the fall
is like floating.
I lie there, looking up at the stars. I pick out some of
the constellations and name the stars that make
them up. I've learned them from an astronomy book
that belonged to my father's mother.
I see the sudden light streak of a meteor flashing
westward across the sky. I stare after it, hoping to
see another. Then my stepmother calls me and I go
back to her.
"There are city lights now," I say to her. "They don't
hide the stars."
She shakes her head. "There aren't anywhere near
as many as there were. Kids today have no idea
what a blaze of light cities used to be-- and not that
long ago."
"I'd rather have the stars," I say.
"The stars are free." She shrugs. "I'd rather have
the city lights back myself, the sooner the better. But
we can afford the stars."
2
A gift of God
May sear unready fingers.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SUNDAY, JULY 21, 2024
At least three years ago, my father's God stopped
being my God. His church stopped being my church.
And yet, today, because I'm a coward, I let myself be
initiated into that church. I let my father baptize me in
all three names of that God who isn't mine any more.
My God has another name.
We got up early this morning because we had to go
across town to church. Most Sundays, Dad holds
church services in our front rooms. He's a Baptist
minister, and even though not all of the people who
live within our neighborhood walls are Baptists,
those who feel the need to go to church are glad to
come to us. That way they don't have to risk going
outside where things are so dangerous and crazy.
It's bad enough that some people-- my father for
one-- have to go out to work at least once a week.
None of us goes out to school any more. Adults get
nervous about kids going outside.
But today was special. For today, my father made
arrangements with another minister-- a friend of his
who still had a real church building with a real
baptistery.
Dad once had a church just a few blocks outside our
wall. He began it before there were so many walls.
But after it had been slept in by the homeless,
robbed, and vandalized several times, someone
poured gasoline in and around it and burned it down.
Seven of the homeless people sleeping inside on
that last night burned with it.
But somehow, Dad's friend Reverend Robinson has
managed to keep his church from being destroyed.
We rode our bikes to it this morning-- me, two of my
brothers, four other neighborhood kids who were
ready to be baptized, plus my father and some other
neighborhood adults riding shotgun. All the adults
were armed. That's the rule. Go out in a bunch, and
go armed.
The alternative was to be baptized in the bathtub at
home. That would have been cheaper and safer and
fine with me. I said so, but no one paid any attention
to me. To the adults, going outside to a real church
was like stepping back into the good old days when
there were churches all over the place and too many
lights and gasoline was for fueling cars and trucks
instead of for torching things. They never miss a
chance to relive the good old days or to tell kids how
great it's going to be when the country gets back on
its feet and good times come back.
Yeah.
To us kids-- most of us-- the trip was just an
adventure, an excuse to go outside the wall. We
would be baptized out of duty or as a kind of
insurance, but most of us aren't that much
concerned with religion. I am, but then I have a
different religion.
"Why take chances," Silvia Dunn said to me a few
days ago. "Maybe there's something to all this
religion stuff." Her parents thought there was, so she
was with us.
My brother Keith who was also with us didn't share
any of my beliefs. He just didn't care. Dad wanted
him to be baptized, so what the hell. There wasn't
much that Keith did care about. He liked to hang out
with his friends and pretend to be grown up, dodge
work and dodge school and dodge church. He's only
twelve, the oldest of my three brothers. I don't like
him much, but he's my stepmother's favorite. Three
smart sons and one dumb one, and it's the dumb
one she loves best.
Keith looked around more than anyone as we rode.
His ambition, if you could call it that, is to get out of
the neighborhood and go to Los Angeles. He's never
too clear about what he'll do there. He just wants to
go to the big city and make big money. According to
my father, the big city is a carcass covered with too
many maggots. I think he's right, though not all the
maggots are in L.A. They're here, too.
But maggots tend not to be early-morning types. We
rode past people stretched out, sleeping on the
sidewalks, and a few just waking up, but they paid
no attention to us. I saw at least three people who
weren't going to wake up again, ever. One of them
was headless. I caught myself looking around for the
head. After that, I tried not to look around at all.
A woman, young, naked, and filthy stumbled along
past us. I got a look at her slack expression and
realized that she was dazed or drunk or something.
Maybe she had been raped so much that she was
crazy. I'd heard stories of that happening. Or maybe
she was just high on drugs. The boys in our group
almost fell off their bikes, staring at her. What
wonderful religious thoughts they would be having
for a while.
The naked woman never looked at us. I glanced
back after we'd passed her and saw that she had
settled down in the weeds against someone else's
neighborhood wall.
A lot of our ride was along one neighborhood wall
after another; some a block long, some two blocks,
some five. . . . Up toward the hills there were walled
estates-- one big house and a lot of shacky little
dependencies where the servants lived. We didn't
pass anything like that today. In fact we passed a
couple of neighborhoods so poor that their walls
were made up of unmortared rocks, chunks of
concrete, and trash. Then there were the pitiful,
unwalled residential areas. A lot of the houses were
trashed-- burned, vandalized, infested with drunks or
druggies or squatted-in by homeless families with
their filthy, gaunt, half-naked children. Their kids
were wide awake and watching us this morning. I
feel sorry for the little ones, but the ones my age and
older make me nervous. We ride down the middle of
the cracked street, and the kids come out and stand
along the curb to stare at us. They just stand and
stare. I think if there were only one or two of us, or if
they couldn't see our guns, they might try to pull us
down and steal our bikes, our clothes, our shoes,
whatever. Then what? Rape? Murder? We could
wind up like that naked woman, stumbling along,
dazed, maybe hurt, sure to attract dangerous
attention unless she could steal some clothing. I
wish we could have given her something.
My stepmother says she and my father stopped to
help an injured woman once, and the guys who had
injured her jumped out from behind a wall and
almost killed them.
And we're in Robledo-- 20 miles from Los Angeles,
and, according to Dad, once a rich, green, unwalled
little city that he had been eager to abandon when
he was a young man. Like Keith, he had wanted to
escape the dullness of Robledo for big city
excitement. L.A. was better then-- less lethal. He
lived there for 21 years. Then in 2010, his parents
were murdered and he inherited their house.
Whoever killed them had robbed the house and
smashed up the furniture, but they didn't torch
anything. There was no neighborhood wall back
then.
Crazy to live without a wall to protect you. Even in
Robledo, most of the street poor-- squatters, winos,
junkies, homeless people in general-- are
dangerous. They're desperate or crazy or both.
That's enough to make anyone dangerous.
Worse for me, they often have things wrong with
them. They cut off each other's ears, arms, legs. . . .
They carry untreated diseases and festering
wounds. They have no money to spend on water to
wash with so even the unwounded have sores. They
don't get enough to eat so they're malnourished-- or
they eat bad food and poison themselves. As I rode,
I tried not to look around at them, but I couldn't help
seeing-- collecting-- some of their general misery.
I can take a lot of pain without falling apart. I've had
to learn to do that. But it was hard, today, to keep
pedaling and keep up with the others when just
about everyone I saw made me feel worse and
worse.
My father glanced back at me every now and then.
He tells me, "You can beat this thing. You don't have
to give in to it." He has always pretended, or
perhaps believed, that my hyperempathy syndrome
was something I could shake off and forget about.
The sharing isn't real, after all. It isn't some magic or
ESP that allows me to share the pain or the pleasure
of other people. It's delusional. Even I admit that. My
brother Keith used to pretend to be hurt just to trick
me into sharing his supposed pain. Once he used
red ink as fake blood to make me bleed. I was
eleven then, and I still bled through the skin when I
saw someone else bleeding. I couldn't help doing it,
and I always worried that it would give me away to
people outside the family.
I haven't shared bleeding with anyone since I was
twelve and got my first period. What a relief that
was. I just wish all the rest of it had gone away, too.
Keith only tricked me into bleeding that once, and I
beat the hell out of him for it. I didn't fight much when
I was little because it hurt me so. I felt every blow
that I struck, just as though I'd hit myself. So when I
did decide that I had to fight, I set out to hurt the
other kid more than kids usually hurt one another. I
broke Michael Talcott's arm and Rubin Quintanilla's
nose. I knocked out four of Silvia Dunn's teeth. They
all earned what I did to them two or three times over.
I got punished every time, and I resented it. It was
double punishment, after all, and my father and
stepmother knew it. But knowing didn't stop them. I
think they did it to satisfy the other kids' parents. But
when I beat up Keith, I knew that Cory or Dad or
both of them would punish me for it-- my poor little
brother, after all. So I had to see that my poor little
brother paid in advance. What I did to him had to be
worthwhile in spite of what they would do to me.
It was.
We both got it later from Dad-- me for hurting a
younger kid and Keith for risking putting "family
business" into the street. Dad is big on privacy and
"family business." There's a whole range of things
we never even hint about outside the family. First
among these is anything about my mother, my
hyperempathy, and how the two are connected. To
my father, the whole business is shameful. He's a
preacher and a professor and a dean. A first wife
who was a drug addict and a daughter who is drug
damaged is not something he wants to boast about.
Lucky for me. Being the most vulnerable person I
know is damned sure not something I want to boast
about.
I can't do a thing about my hyperempathy, no matter
what Dad thinks or wants or wishes. I feel what I see
others feeling or what I believe they feel.
Hyperempathy is what the doctors call an "organic
delusional syndrome." Big shit. It hurts, that's all I
know. Thanks to Paracetco, the smart pill, the
Einstein powder, the particular drug my mother
chose to abuse before my birth killed her, I'm crazy. I
get a lot of grief that doesn't belong to me, and that
isn't real. But it hurts.
I'm supposed to share pleasure and pain, but there
isn't much pleasure around these days. About the
only pleasure I've found that I enjoy sharing is sex. I
get the guy's good feeling and my own. I almost wish
I didn't. I live in a tiny, walled fish-bowl cul-de-sac
community, and I'm the preacher's daughter. There's
a real limit to what I can do as far as sex goes.
Anyway, my neurotransmitters are scrambled and
they're going to stay scrambled. But I can do okay
as long as other people don't know about me. Inside
our neighborhood walls I do fine. Our rides today,
though, were hell. Going and coming, they were all
the worst things I've ever felt-- shadows and ghosts,
twists and jabs of unexpected pain.
If I don't look too long at old injuries, they don't hurt
me too much. There was a naked little boy whose
skin was a mass of big red sores; a man with a huge
scab over the stump where his right hand used to
be; a little girl, naked, maybe seven years old with
blood running down her bare thighs. A woman with a
swollen, bloody, beaten face. . . .
I must have seemed jumpy. I glanced around like a
bird, not letting my gaze rest on anyone longer than
it took me to see that they weren't coming in my
direction or aiming anything at me.
Dad may have read something of what I was feeling
in my expression. I try not to let my face show
anything, but he's good at reading me. Sometimes
people say I look grim or angry. Better to have them
think that than know the truth. Better to have them
think anything than let them know just how easy it is
to hurt me.
Dad had insisted on fresh, clean, potable water for
the baptism. He couldn't afford it, of course. Who
could? That was the other reason for the four extra
kids:
Silvia Dunn, Hector Quintanilla, Curtis Talcott, and
Drew Balter, along with my brothers Keith and
Marcus. The other kids' parents had helped with
costs. They thought a proper baptism was important
enough to spend some money and take some risks.
I was the oldest by about two months. Curtis was
next. As much as I hated being there, I hated even
more that Curtis was there. I care about him more
than I want to. I care what he thinks of me. I worry
that I'll fall apart in public some day and he'll see.
But not today.
By the time we reached the fortress-church, my
jaw-muscles hurt from clinching and unclinching my
teeth, and overall, I was exhausted.
There were only five or six dozen people at the
service -- enough to fill up our front rooms at home
and look like a big crowd. At the church, though, with
its surrounding wall and its security bars and Lazor
wire and its huge hollowness inside, and its armed
guards, the crowd seemed a tiny scattering of
people. That was all right. The last thing I wanted
was a big audience to maybe trip me up with pain.
The baptism went just as planned. They sent us kids
off to the bathrooms ("men's," "women's," "please do
not put paper of any kind into toilets," "water for
washing in bucket at left. . . .") to undress and put on
white gowns. When we were ready, Curtis's father
took us to an anteroom where we could hear the
preaching-- from the first chapter of Saint John and
the second chapter of The Acts-- and wait our turns.
My turn came last. I assume that was my father's
idea. First the neighbor kids, then my brothers, then
me. For reasons that don't make a lot of sense to
me, Dad thinks I need more humility. I think my
particular biological humility-- or humiliation-- is more
than enough.
What the hell? Someone had to be last. I just wish I
could have been courageous enough to skip the
thing altogether.
So, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost. . . ."
Catholics get this stuff over with when they're
babies. I wish Baptists did. I almost wish I could
believe it was important the way a lot of people
seem to, the way my father seems to. Failing that, I
wish I didn't care.
But I do. The idea of God is much on my mind these
days. I've been paying attention to what other people
believe-- whether they believe, and if so what kind of
God they believe in. Keith says God is just the
adults' way of trying to scare you into doing what
they want. He doesn't say that around Dad, but he
says it. He believes in what he sees, and no matter
what's in front of him, he doesn't see much. I
suppose Dad would say that about me if he knew
what I believe. Maybe he'd be right. But it wouldn't
stop me from seeing what I see.
A lot of people seem to believe in a big-daddy-God
or a big-cop-God or a big-king-God. They believe in
a kind of super-person. A few believe God is another
word for nature. And nature turns out to mean just
about anything they happen not to understand or
feel in control of.
Some say God is a spirit, a force, an ultimate reality.
Ask seven people what all of that means and you'll
get seven different answers. So what is God? Just
another name for whatever makes you feel special
and protected?
There's a big, early-season storm blowing itself out
in the Gulf of Mexico. It's bounced around the Gulf,
killing people from Florida to Texas and down into
Mexico. There are over 700 known dead so far. One
hurricane. And how many people has it hurt? How
many are going to starve later because of destroyed
crops? That's nature. Is it God? Most of the dead are
the street poor who have nowhere to go and who
don't hear the warnings until it's too late for their feet
to take them to safety. Where's safety for them,
anyway? Is it a sin against God to be poor? We're
almost poor ourselves. There are fewer and fewer
jobs among us, more of us being born, more kids
growing up with nothing to look forward to. One way
or another, we'll all be poor some day. The adults
say things will get better, but they never have. How
will God-- my father's God-- behave toward us when
we're poor?
Is there a God? If there is, does he (she? it?) care
about us? Deists like Benjamin Franklin and Thomas
Jefferson believed God was something that made
us, then left us on our own.
"Misguided," Dad said when I asked him about
Deists. "They should have had more faith in what
their Bibles told them."
I wonder if the people on the Gulf Coast still have
faith. People have had faith through horrible
disasters before. I read a lot about that kind of thing.
I read a lot period. My favorite book of the Bible is
Job. I think it says more about my father's God in
particular and gods in general than anything else I've
ever read.
In the book of Job, God says he made everything
and he knows everything so no one has any right to
question what he does with any of it. Okay. That
works. That Old Testament God doesn't violate the
way things are now. But that God sounds a lot like
Zeus-- a super-powerful man, playing with his toys
the way my youngest brothers play with toy soldiers.
Bang, bang! Seven toys fall dead. If they're yours,
you make the rules. Who cares what the toys think.
Wipe out a toy's family, then give it a brand new
family. Toy children, like Job's children, are
interchangeable.
Maybe God is a kind of big kid, playing with his toys.
If he is, what difference does it make if 700 people
get killed in a hurricane-- or if seven kids go to
church and get dipped in a big tank of expensive
water?
But what if all that is wrong? What if God is
something else altogether?
3
We do not worship God.
We perceive and attend God.
We learn from God.
With forethought and work,
We shape God.
In the end, we yield to God.
We adapt and endure,
For we are Earthseed,
And God is Change.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
TUESDAY, JULY 30, 2024
One of the astronauts on the latest Mars mission has
been killed. Something went wrong with her
protective suit and the rest of her team couldn't get
her back to the shelter in time to save her. People
here in the neighborhood are saying she had no
business going to Mars, anyway. All that money
wasted on another crazy space trip when so many
people here on earth can't afford water, food, or
shelter.
The cost of water has gone up again. And I heard on
the news today that more water peddlers are being
killed. Peddlers sell water to squatters and the street
poor-- and to people who've managed to hold on to
their homes, but not to pay their utility bills. Peddlers
are being found with their throats cut and their
money and their handtrucks stolen. Dad says water
now costs several times as much as gasoline. But,
except for arsonists and the rich, most people have
given up buying gasoline. No one I know uses a
gaspowered car, truck, or cycle. Vehicles like that
are rusting in driveways and being cannibalized for
metal and plastic.
It's a lot harder to give up water.
Fashion helps. You're supposed to be dirty now. If
you're clean, you make a target of yourself. People
think you're showing off, trying to be better than they
are. Among the younger kids, being clean is a great
way to start a fight. Cory won't let us stay dirty here
in the neighborhood, but we all have filthy clothes to
wear outside the walls. Even inside, my brothers
throw dirt on themselves as soon as they get away
from the house. It's better than getting beaten up all
the time.
Tonight the last big Window Wall television in the
neighborhood went dark for good. We saw the dead
astronaut with all of red, rocky Mars around her. We
saw a dust-dry reservoir and three dead water
peddlers with their dirty-blue armbands and their
heads cut halfway off. And we saw whole blocks of
boarded up buildings burning in Los Angeles. Of
course, no one would waste water trying to put such
fires out.
Then the Window went dark. The sound had
flickered up and down for months, but the picture
was always as promised-- like looking through a
vast, open window.
The Yannis family has made a business of having
people in to look through their Window. Dad says
that kind of unlicensed business isn't legal, but he let
us go to watch sometimes because he didn't see
any harm in it, and it helped the Yannises. A lot of
small businesses are illegal, even though they don't
hurt anyone, and they keep a household or two
alive. The Yannis Window is about as old as I am. It
covers the long west wall of their living room. They
must have had plenty of money back when they
bought it. For the past couple of years, though,
they've been charging admission-- only letting in
people from the neighborhood-- and selling fruit, fruit
juice, acorn bread, or walnuts. Whatever they had
too much of in their garden, they found a way to sell.
They showed movies from their library and let us
watch news and whatever else was broadcast. They
couldn't afford to subscribe to any of the new
multisensory stuff, and their old Window couldn't
have received most of it, anyway.
They had no reality vests, no touch-rings, and no
headsets. Their setup was just a plain, thin-screened
Window.
All we have left now are three small, ancient, murky
little TV sets scattered around the neighborhood, a
couple of computers used for work, and radios.
Every household still has at least one working radio.
A lot of our everyday news is from radio.
I wonder what Mrs. Yannis will do now. Her two
sisters have moved in with her, and they're working
so maybe it will be all right. One is a pharmacist and
the other is a nurse. They don't earn much, but Mrs.
Yannis owns the house free and clear. It was her
parents' house.
All three sisters are widows and between them they
have twelve kids, all younger than I am. Two years
ago, Mr. Yannis, a dentist, was killed while riding his
electric cycle home from the walled, guarded clinic
where he worked. Mrs. Yannis says he was caught
in a crossfire, hit from two directions, then shot once
more at close range. His bike was stolen. The police
investigated, collected their fee, and couldn't find a
thing. People get killed like that all the time. Unless it
happens in front of a police station, there are never
any witnesses.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 2024
The dead astronaut is going to be brought back to
Earth. She wanted to be buried on Mars. She said
that when she realized she was dying. She said
Mars was the one thing she had wanted all her life,
and now she would be part of it forever.
But the Secretary of Astronautics says no. He says
her body might be a contaminant. Idiot.
Can he believe that any microorganism living in or
on her body would have a prayer of surviving and
going native in that cold, thin, lethal ghost of an
atmosphere? Maybe he can. Secretaries of
Astronautics don't have to know much about
science. They have to know about politics. Theirs is
the youngest Cabinet department, and already it's
fighting for its life. Christopher Morpeth Donner, one
of the men running for President this year, has
promised to abolish it if he's elected. My father
agrees with Donner.
"Bread and circuses," my father says when there's
space news on the radio. "Politicians and big
corporations get the bread, and we get the circuses."
"Space could be our future," I say. I believe that. As
far as I'm concerned, space exploration and
colonization are among the few things left over from
the last century that can help us more than they hurt
us. It's hard to get anyone to see that, though, when
there's so much suffering going on just outside our
walls.
Dad just looks at me and shakes his head. "You
don't understand," he says. "You don't have any idea
what a criminal waste of time and money that
so-called space program is." He's going to vote for
Donner. He's the only person I know who's going to
vote at all. Most people have given up on politicians.
After all, politicians have been promising to return us
to the glory, wealth, and order of the twentieth
century every since I can remember. That's what the
space program is about these days, at least for
politicians. Hey, we can run a space station, a
station on the moon, and soon, a colony on Mars.
That proves we're still a great, forward-looking,
powerful nation, right?
Yeah.
Well, we're barely a nation at all anymore, but I'm
glad we're still in space. We have to be going some
place other than down the toilet.
And I'm sorry that astronaut will be brought back
from her own chosen heaven. Her name was Alicia
Catalina Godinez Leal. She was a chemist. I intend
to remember her. I think she can be a kind of model
for me. She spent her life heading for Mars--
preparing herself, becoming an astronaut, getting on
a Mars crew, going to Mars, beginning to figure out
how to terraform Mars, beginning to create sheltered
places where people can live and work now. . . .
Mars is a rock-- cold, empty, almost airless, dead.
Yet it's heaven in a way. We can see it in the night
sky, a whole other world, but too nearby, too close
within the reach of the people who've made such a
hell of life here on Earth.
MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2024
Mrs. Sims shot herself today-- or rather, she shot
herself a few days ago, and Cory and Dad found her
today. Cory went a little crazy for a while afterward.
Poor, sanctimonious, old Mrs. Sims. She used to sit
in our front-room church every Sunday, large-print
Bible in hand, and shout out her responses: "Yes,
Lord!" "Hallelujah!" "Thank you, Jesus!" "Amen!"
During the rest of the week she sewed, made
baskets, took care of her garden, sold what she
could from it, took care of pre-school children, and
talked about everyone who wasn't as holy as she
thought she was.
She was the only person I've ever known who lived
alone. She had a whole big house to herself
because she and the wife of her only son hated
each other. Her son and his family were poor, but
they wouldn't live with her. Too bad.
Different people frightened her in some deep, hard,
ugly way. She didn't like the Hsu family because
they were Chinese and Hispanic, and the older
Chinese generation is still Buddhist. She's lived a
couple of doors up from them for longer than I've
been alive, but they were still from Saturn as far as
she was concerned.
"Idolaters," she would call them if none of them were
around. At least she cared enough about neighborly
relations to do her talking about them behind their
backs. They brought her peaches and figs and a
length of good cotton cloth last month when she was
robbed.
That robbery was Mrs. Sims's first major tragedy.
Three men climbed over the neighborhood wall,
cutting through the strands of barbed wire and Lazor
wire on top. Lazor wire is terrible stuff. It's so fine
and sharp that it slices into the wings or feet of birds
who either don't see it or see it and try to settle on it.
People, though, can always find a way over, under,
or through.
Everyone brought Mrs. Sims things after the
robbery, in spite of the way she is. Was. Food,
clothing, money. . . . We took up collections for her
at church. The thieves had tied her up and left her--
after one of them raped her. An old lady like that!
They grabbed all her food, her jewelry that had once
belonged to her mother, her clothes, and worst of all,
her supply of cash. It turns out she kept that-- all of
it-- in a blue plastic mixing bowl high up in her
kitchen cabinet. Poor, crazy old lady. She came to
my father, crying and carrying on after the robbery
because now she couldn't buy the extra food she
needed to supplement what she grew. She couldn't
pay her utility bills or her upcoming property taxes.
She would be thrown out of her house into the
street! She would starve!
Dad told her over and over that the church would
never let that happen, but she didn't believe him.
She talked on and on about having to be a beggar
now, while Dad and Cory tried to reassure her. The
funny thing is, she didn't like us either because Dad
had gone and married "that Mexican woman
Cory-ah-zan." It just isn't that hard to say "Corazon"
if that's what you choose to call her. Most people just
call her Cory or Mrs. Olamina.
Cory never let on that she was offended. She and
Mrs. Sims were sugary sweet to one another. A little
more hypocrisy to keep the peace.
Last week Mrs. Sims's son, his five kids, his wife,
her brother, and her brother's three kids all died in a
house fire-- an arson fire. The son's house had been
in an unwalled area north and east of us, closer to
the foothills. It wasn't a bad area, but it was poor.
Naked. One night someone torched the house.
Maybe it was a vengeance fire set by some enemy
of a family member or maybe some crazy just set it
for fun. I've heard there's a new illegal drug that
makes people want to set fires.
Anyway, no one knows who did it to the Sims/Boyer
families. No one saw anything, of course.
And no one got out of the house. Odd, that. Eleven
people, and no one got out.
So about three days ago, Mrs. Sims shot herself.
Dad said he'd heard from the cops that it was about
three days ago. That would have been just two days
after she heard about her son's death. Dad went to
see her this morning because she missed church
yesterday. Cory forced herself to go along because
she thought she should. I wish she hadn't. To me,
dead bodies are disgusting. They stink, and if they're
old enough, there are maggots. But what the hell?
They're dead. They aren't suffering, and if you didn't
like them when they were alive, why get so upset
about their being dead? Cory gets upset. She jumps
on me for sharing pain with the living, but she tries to
share it with the dead.
I began writing this about Mrs. Sims because she
killed herself. That's what's upset me. She believed,
like Dad, that if you kill yourself, you go to hell and
burn forever. She believed in a literal acceptance of
everything in the Bible. Yet, when things got to be
too much for her, she decided to trade pain now for
eternal pain in the hereafter.
How could she do that?
Did she really believe in anything at all? Was it all
hypocrisy?
Or maybe she just went crazy because her God was
demanding too much of her. She was no Job. In real
life, how many people are?
SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 2024
I can't get Mrs. Sims out of my mind. Somehow, she
and her suicide have gotten tangled up with the
astronaut and her death and her expulsion from
heaven. I need to write about what I believe. I need
to begin to put together the scattered verses that I've
been writing about God since I was twelve. Most of
them aren't much good. They say what I need to
say, but they don't say it very well. A few are the way
they should be. They press on me, too, like the two
deaths. I try to hide in all the work there is to do here
for the household, for my father's church, and for the
school Cory keeps to teach the neighborhood kids.
The truth is, I don't care about any of those things,
but they keep me busy and make me tired, and most
of the time, I sleep without dreaming. And Dad
beams when people tell him how smart and
industrious I am.
I love him. He's the best person I know, and I care
what he thinks. I wish I didn't, but I do.
For whatever it's worth, here's what I believe. It took
me a lot of time to understand it, then a lot more time
with a dictionary and a thesaurus to say it just right--
just the way it has to be. In the past year, it's gone
through twenty-five or thirty lumpy, incoherent
rewrites. This is the right one, the true one. This is
the one I keep coming back to:
God is Power--
Infinite,
Irresistible,
Inexorable,
Indifferent.
And yet, God is Pliable--
Trickster,
Teacher,
Chaos,
Clay.
God exists to be shaped.
God is Change.
This is the literal truth.
God can't be resisted or stopped, but can be shaped
and focused. This means God is not to be prayed to.
Prayers only help the person doing the praying, and
then, only if they strengthen and focus that person's
resolve. If they're used that way, they can help us in
our only real relationship with God. They help us to
shape God and to accept and work with the shapes
that God imposes on us. God is power, and in the
end, God prevails.
But we can rig the game in our own favor if we
understand that God exists to be shaped, and will be
shaped, with or without our forethought, with or
without our intent.
That's what I know. That's some of it anyway. I'm not
like Mrs. Sims. I'm not some kind of potential Job,
long suffering, stiff necked, then, at last, either
humble before an all-knowing almighty, or
destroyed. My God doesn't love me or hate me or
watch over me or know me at all, and I feel no love
for or loyalty to my God. My God just is.
Maybe I'll be more like Alicia Leal, the astronaut.
Like her, I believe in something that I think my dying,
denying, backward-looking people need. I don't have
all of it yet. I don't even know how to pass on what I
do have. I've got to learn to do that. It scares me
how many things I've got to learn. How will I learn
them?
Is any of this real?
Dangerous question. Sometimes I don't know the
answer. I doubt myself. I doubt what I think I know. I
try to forget about it. After all, if it's real, why doesn't
anyone else know about it. Everyone knows that
change is inevitable. From the second law of
thermodynamics to Darwinian evolution, from
Buddhism's insistence that nothing is permanent and
all suffering results from our delusions of
permanence to the third chapter of Ecclesiastes ("To
everything there is a season. . . . "), change is part of
life, of existence, of the common wisdom. But I don't
believe we're dealing with all that that means. We
haven't even begun to deal with it.
We give lip service to acceptance, as though
acceptance were enough. Then we go on to create
super-people-- super-parents, super-kings and
queens, super-cops-- to be our gods and to look
after us-- to stand between us and God. Yet God
has been here all along, shaping us and being
shaped by us in no particular way or in too many
ways at once like an amoeba-- or like a cancer.
Chaos.
Even so, why can't I do what others have done--
ignore the obvious. Live a normal life. It's hard
enough just to do that in this world.
But this thing (This idea? Philosophy? New religion?)
won't let me alone, won't let me forget it, won't let me
go. Maybe. . . . Maybe it's like my sharing: One more
weirdness; one more crazy, deep-rooted delusion
that I'm stuck with. I am stuck with it. And in time, I'll
have to do something about it. In spite of what my
father will say or do to me, in spite of the poisonous
rottenness outside the wall where I might be exiled,
I'll have to do something about it.
That reality scares me to death.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 2024
President William Turner Smith lost yesterday's
election. Christopher Charles Morpeth Donner is our
new President-- President-elect. So what are we in
for? Donner has already said that as soon as
possible after his inauguration next year, he'll begin
to dismantle the "wasteful, pointless, unnecessary"
moon and Mars programs. Near space programs
dealing with communications and experimentation
will be privatized-- sold off.
Also, Donner has a plan for putting people back to
work. He hopes to get laws changed, suspend
"overly restrictive" minimum wage, environmental,
and worker protection laws for those employers
willing to take on homeless employees and provide
them with training and adequate room and board.
What's adequate, I wonder: A house or apartment?
A room? A bed in a shared room? A barracks bed?
Space on a floor? Space on the ground? And what
about people with big families? Won't they be seen
as bad investments? Won't it make much more
sense for companies to hire single people, childless
couples, or, at most, people with only one or two
kids? I wonder.
And what about those suspended laws? Will it be
legal to poison, mutilate, or infect people-- as long as
you provide them with food, water, and space to
die?
Dad decided not to vote for Donner after all. He
didn't vote for anyone. He said politicians turned his
stomach.
2025
Intelligence is ongoing, individual
adaptability. Adaptations that an
intelligent species may make in a
singe generation, other species
make over many generations of
selective breeding and selective
dying. Yet intelligence is
demanding. If it is misdirected by
accident or by intent, it can foster
its own orgies of breeding and
dying.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
by Lauren Oya Olamina
4
A victim of God may,
Through learning adaption,
Become a partner of God.
A victim of God may,
Through forethought and planning,
Become a shaper of God.
Or a victim of God may,
Through shortsightedness and fear,
Remain God's victim,
God's plaything,
God's prey.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2025
We had a fire today. People worry so much about
fire, but the little kids will play with it if they can. We
were lucky with this fire. Amy Dunn, three years old,
managed to start it in her family's garage.
Once the fire began to crawl up the wall, Amy got
scared and ran into the house. She knew she had
done something bad, so she didn't tell anyone. She
hid under her grandmother's bed.
Out back, the dry wood of the garage burned fast
and hot. Robin Balter saw the smoke and rang the
emergency bell on the island in our street. Robin's
only ten, but she's a bright little kid-- one of my
stepmother's star students. She keeps her head. If
she hadn't alerted people as soon as she saw the
smoke, the fire could have spread.
I heard the bell and ran out like everyone else to see
what was wrong. The Dunns live across the street
from us, so I couldn't miss the smoke.
The fire plan worked the way it was supposed to.
The adult men and women put the fire out with
garden hoses, shovels, wet towels and blankets.
Those without hoses beat at the edges of the fire
and smothered them with dirt. Kids my age helped
out where we were needed and put out any new
fires started by flying embers. We brought buckets to
fill with water, and shovels, blankets, and towels of
our own. There were a lot of us, and we kept our
eyes open. The very old people watched the little
kids and kept them out of the way and out of trouble.
No one missed Amy. No one had seen her in the
Dunn back yard, so no one thought about her. Her
grandmother found her much later and got the truth
out of her.
The garage was a total loss. Edwin Dunn salvaged
some of his garden and carpentry equipment, but
not much. The grapefruit tree next to the garage and
the two peach trees behind it were half-burned, too,
but they might survive. The carrot, squash, collard,
and potato plants were a trampled mess.
Of course, no one called the fire department. No one
would take on fire service fees just to save an
unoccupied garage. Most of our households couldn't
afford another big bill, anyway. The water wasted on
putting out the fire was going to be hard enough to
pay for.
What will happen, I wonder, to poor little Amy Dunn.
No one cares about her. Her family feeds her and,
now and then, cleans her up, but they don't love her
or even like her. Her mother Tracy is only a year
older than I am. She was 13 when Amy was born.
She was 12 when her 27-year-old uncle who had
been raping her for years managed to make her
pregnant.
Problem: Uncle Derek was a big, blond, handsome
guy, funny and bright and well-liked. Tracy was, is,
dull and homely, sulky and dirty-looking. Even when
she's clean, she looks splotchy, dirty. Some of her
problems might have come from being raped by
Uncle Derek for years. Uncle Derek was Tracy's
mother's youngest brother, her favorite brother, but
when people realized what he had been doing, the
neighborhood men got together and suggested he
go live somewhere else. People didn't want him
around their daughters. Irrational as usual, Tracy's
mother blamed Tracy for his exile, and for her own
embarrassment. Not many girls in the neighborhood
have babies before they drag some boy to my father
and have him unite them in holy matrimony. But
there was no one to marry Tracy, and no money for
prenatal care or an abortion. And poor Amy, as she
grew, looked more and more like Tracy: scrawny
and splochy with sparse, stringy hair. I don't think
she'll ever be pretty.
Tracy's maternal instincts didn't kick in, and I doubt
that her mother Christmas Dunn has any. The Dunn
family has a reputation for craziness. There are
sixteen of them living in the Dunn house, and at
least a third are nuts. Amy isn't crazy, though. Not
yet. She's neglected and lonely, and like any little kid
left on her own too much, she finds ways to amuse
herself.
I've never seen anyone hit Amy or curse her or
anything like that. The Dunns do care what people
think of them. But no one pays any attention to her,
either. She spends most of her time playing alone in
the dirt. She also eats the dirt and whatever she
finds in it, including bugs. But not long ago, just out
of curiosity, I took her to our house, sponged her off,
taught her the alphabet, and showed her how to
write her name. She loved it. She's got a hungry,
able little mind, and she loves attention.
Tonight I asked Cory if Amy could start school early.
Cory doesn't take kids until they're five or close to
five, but she said she'd let Amy in if I would take
charge of her. I expected that, though I don't like it. I
help with the five and six year olds, anyway. I've
been taking care of little kids since I was one, and
I'm tired of it. I think, though, that if someone doesn't
help Amy now, someday she'll do something a lot
worse than burning down her family's garage.
Problem: Uncle Derek was a big, blond, handsome
guy, funny and bright and well-liked. Tracy was, is,
dull and homely, sulky and dirty-looking. Even when
she's clean, she looks splotchy, dirty. Some of her
problems might have come from being raped by
Uncle Derek for years. Uncle Derek was Tracy's
mother's youngest brother, her favorite brother, but
when people realized what he had been doing, the
neighborhood men got together and suggested he
go live somewhere else. People didn't want him
around their daughters. Irrational as usual, Tracy's
mother blamed Tracy for his exile, and for her own
embarrassment. Not many girls in the neighborhood
have babies before they drag some boy to my father
and have him unite them in holy matrimony. But
there was no one to marry Tracy, and no money for
prenatal care or an abortion. And poor Amy, as she
grew, looked more and more like Tracy: scrawny
and splochy with sparse, stringy hair. I don't think
she'll ever be pretty.
Tracy's maternal instincts didn't kick in, and I doubt
that her mother Christmas Dunn has any. The Dunn
family has a reputation for craziness. There are
sixteen of them living in the Dunn house, and at
least a third are nuts. Amy isn't crazy, though. Not
yet. She's neglected and lonely, and like any little kid
left on her own too much, she finds ways to amuse
herself.
I've never seen anyone hit Amy or curse her or
anything like that. The Dunns do care what people
think of them. But no one pays any attention to her,
either. She spends most of her time playing alone in
the dirt. She also eats the dirt and whatever she
finds in it, including bugs. But not long ago, just out
of curiosity, I took her to our house, sponged her off,
taught her the alphabet, and showed her how to
write her name. She loved it. She's got a hungry,
able little mind, and she loves attention.
Tonight I asked Cory if Amy could start school early.
Cory doesn't take kids until they're five or close to
five, but she said she'd let Amy in if I would take
charge of her. I expected that, though I don't like it. I
help with the five and six year olds, anyway. I've
been taking care of little kids since I was one, and
I'm tired of it. I think, though, that if someone doesn't
help Amy now, someday she'll do something a lot
worse than burning down her family's garage.
.
Parable of the Sower
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19,
2025
Some cousins of old Mrs. Sims have inherited her
house. They're lucky there's still a house to inherit. If
it weren't for our wall, the house would have been
gutted, taken over by squatters, or torched as soon
as it was empty. As it was, all people did was take
back things they had given to Mrs. Sims after she
was robbed, and take whatever food she had in the
house. No sense letting it rot. We didn't take her
furniture or her rugs or her appliances. We could
have, but we didn't. We aren't thieves.
Wardell Parrish and Rosalee Payne think otherwise.
They're both small, rust-brown, sour-looking people
like Mrs. Sims. They're the children of a first cousin
that Mrs. Sims had managed to keep contact and
good relations with. He's a widower twice over, no
kids, and she's been widowed once, seven kids.
They're not only brother and sister, but twins. Maybe
that helps them get along with each other. They
damn sure won't get along with anyone else.
They're moving in today. They've been here a
couple of times before to look the place over, and I
guess they must have liked it better than their
parents' house. They shared that with 18 other
people. I was busy in the den with my class of
younger school kids, so I didn't meet them until
today, though I've heard Dad talking to them-- heard
them sit in our living room and insinuate that we had
cleaned out Mrs. Sims's house before they arrived.
Dad kept his temper. "You know she was robbed
during the month before she died," he said. "You can
check with the police about that-- if you haven't
already. Since then the community has protected the
house. We haven't used it or stripped it. If you
choose to live among us, you should understand
that. We help each other, and we don't steal."
"I wouldn't expect you to say you did," Wardell
Parrish muttered.
His sister jumped in before he could say more.
"We're not accusing anyone of anything," she lied.
"We just wondered. . . . We knew Cousin Marjorie
had some nice things-- jewelry that she inherited
from her mother. . . Very valuable. . . .
"Check with the police," my father said.
"Well, yes, I know, but. . . ."
"This is a small community," my father said. "We all
know each other here. We depend on each other."
There was a silence. Perhaps the twins were getting
the message.
"We're not very social," Wardell Parrish said. "We
mind our own business."
Again his sister jumped in before he could go on.
"I'm sure everything will be all right," she said. "I'm
sure we'll get along fine."
I didn't like them when I heard them. I liked them
even less when I met them. They look at us as
though we smell and they don't. Of course, it doesn't
matter whether I like them or not. There are other
people in the neighborhood whom I don't like. But I
don't trust the Payne-Parrishes. The kids seem all
right, but the adults. . . . I wouldn't want to have to
depend on them. Not even for little things.
Payne and Parrish. What perfect names they have.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2025
We ran into a pack of feral dogs today. We went to
the hills today for target practice-- me, my father,
Joanne Garfield, her cousin and boyfriend Harold--
Harry-- Balter, my boyfriend Curtis Talcott, his
brother Michael, Aura Moss and her brother Peter.
Our other adult guardian was Joanne's father Jay.
He's a good guy and a good shot. Dad likes to work
with him, although sometimes there are problems.
The Garfields and the Balters are white, and the rest
of us are black. That can be dangerous these days.
On the street, people are expected to fear and hate
everyone but their own kind, but with all of us armed
and watchful, people stared, but they let us alone.
Our neighborhood is too small for us to play those
kinds of games.
Everything went as usual at first. The Talcotts got
into an argument first with each other, then with the
Mosses. The Mosses are always blaming other
people for whatever they do wrong, so they tend to
have disputes outstanding with most of us. Peter
Moss is the worst because he's always trying to be
like his father, and his father is a total shit. His father
has three wives. All at once. Karen, Natalie, and
Zahra. They've all got kids by him, though so far,
Zahra, the youngest and prettiest, only has one.
Karen is the one with the marriage license, but she
let him get away with bringing in first one, then
another new woman into the house and calling them
his wives. I guess the way things are, she didn't
think she could make it on her own with three kids
when he brought in Natalie and five by the time he
found Zahra.
The Mosses don't come to church. Richard Moss
has put together his own religion-- a combination of
the Old Testament and historical West African
practices. He claims that God wants men to be
patriarchs, rulers and protectors of women, and
fathers of as many children as possible. He's an
engineer for one of the big commercial water
companies, so he can afford to pick up beautiful,
young homeless women and live with them in
polygynous relationships. He could pick up twenty
women like that if he could afford to feed them. I
hear there's a lot of that kind of thing going on in
other neighborhoods. Some middle class men prove
they're men by having a lot of wives in temporary or
permanent relationships. Some upper class men
prove they're men by having one wife and a lot of
beautiful, disposable young servant girls. Nasty.
When the girls get pregnant, if their rich employers
won't protect them, the employers' wives throw them
out to starve.
Is that the way it's going to be, I wonder? Is that the
future: Large numbers of people stuck in either
President-elect Donner's version of slavery or
Richard Moss's.
We rode our bikes to the top of River Street past the
last neighborhood walls, past the last ragged,
unwalled houses, past the last stretch of broken
asphalt and rag and stick shacks of squatters and
street poor who stare at us in their horrible, empty
way, and then higher into the hills along a dirt road.
At last we dismounted and walked our bikes down
the narrow trail into one of the canyons that we and
others use for target practice. It looked all right this
time, but we always have to be careful. People use
canyons for a lot of things. If we find corpses in one,
we stay away from it for a while. Dad tries to shield
us from what goes on in the world, but he can't.
Knowing that, he also tries to teach us to shield
ourselves.
Most of us have practiced at home with BB guns on
homemade targets or on squirrel and bird targets.
I've done all that. My aim is good, but I don't like it
with the birds and squirrels. Dad was the one who
insisted on my learning to shoot them. He said
moving targets would be good for my aim. I think
there was more to it than that. I think he wanted to
see whether or not I could do it-- whether shooting a
bird or a squirrel would trigger my hyperempathy.
It didn't, quite. I didn't like it, but it wasn't painful. It
felt like a big, soft, strange ghost blow, like getting hit
with a huge ball of air, but with no coolness, no
feeling of wind. The blow, though still soft, was a
little harder with squirrels and sometimes rats than
with birds. All three had to be killed, though. They
ate our food or ruined it. Tree-crops were their
special victims: Peaches, plums, figs, persimmons,
nuts. . . . And crops like strawberries, blackberries,
grapes. . . . Whatever we planted, if they could get at
it, they would. Birds are particular pests because
they can fly in, yet I like them. I envy their ability to
fly. Sometimes I get up and go out at dawn just so I
can watch them without anyone scaring them or
shooting them. Now that I'm old enough to go target
shooting on Saturdays, I don't intend to shoot any
more birds, no matter what Dad says. Besides, just
because I can shoot a bird or a squirrel doesn't
mean I could shoot a person-- a thief like the ones
who robbed Mrs. Sims. I don't know whether I could
do that. And if I did it, I don't know what would
happen to me. Would I die?
It's my father's fault that we pay so much attention to
guns and shooting. He carries a nine millimeter
automatic pistol whenever he leaves the
neighborhood. He carries it on his hip where people
can see it. He says that discourages mistakes.
Armed people do get killed-- most often in crossfires
or by snipers-- but unarmed people get killed a lot
more often.
Dad also has a silenced nine millimeter submachine
gun. It stays at home with Cory in case something
happens there while he's away. Both guns are
German-- Heckler & Koch. Dad has never said
where he got the submachine gun. It's illegal, of
course, so I don't blame him. It must have cost a hell
of a lot. He's only had it away from home a few times
so he, Cory, and I could get the feel of it. He'll do the
same for the boys when they're older.
Cory has an old Smith & Wesson .38 revolver that
she's good with. She's had it since before she
married Dad. She loaned that one to me today. Ours
aren't the best or the newest guns in the
neighborhood, but they all work. Dad and Cory keep
them in good condition. I have to help with that now.
And they spend the necessary time on practice and
money on ammunition.
At neighborhood association meetings, Dad used to
push the adults of every household to own weapons,
maintain them, and know how to use them. "Know
how to use them so well," he's said more than once,
"that you're as able to defend yourself at two a.m. as
you are at two p.m."
At first there were a few neighbors who didn't like
that-- older ones who said it was the job of the police
to protect them, younger ones who worried that their
little children would find their guns, and religious
ones who didn't think a minister of the gospel should
need guns. This was several years ago.
"The police," my father told them, "may be able to
avenge you, but they can't protect you. Things are
getting worse. And as for your children. . . . Well,
yes, there is risk. But you can put your guns out of
their reach while they're very young, and train them
as they grow older. That's what I mean to do. I
believe they'll have a better chance of growing up if
you can protect them." He paused, stared at the
people, then went on. "I have a wife and five
children," he said. "I will pray for them all. I'll also
see to it that they know how to defend themselves.
And for as long as I can, I will stand between my
family and any intruder." He paused again. "Now
that's what I have to do. You all do what you have to
do."
By now there are at least two guns in every
household. Dad says he suspects that some of them
are so well hidden-- like Mrs. Sims's gun-- that they
wouldn't be available in an emergency. He's working
on that.
All the kids who attend school at our house get gun
handling instruction. Once they've passed that and
turned fifteen, two or three of the neighborhood
adults begin taking them to the hills for target
practice. It's a kind of rite of passage for us. My
brother Keith has been whining to go along
whenever someone gets a shooting group together,
but the age rule is firm.
I worry about the way Keith wants to get his hands
on the guns. Dad doesn't seem to worry, but I do.
There are always a few groups of homeless people
and packs of feral dogs living out beyond the last
hillside shacks. People and dogs hunt rabbits,
possums, squirrels, and each other. Both scavenge
whatever dies. The dogs used to belong to people--
or their ancestors did. But dogs eat meat. These
days, no poor or middle class person who had an
edible piece of meat would give it to a dog. Rich
people still keep dogs, either because they like them
or because they use them to guard estates,
enclaves, and businesses. The rich have plenty of
other security devices, but the dogs are extra
insurance. Dogs scare people.
I did some shooting today, and I was leaning against
a boulder, watching others shoot, when I realized
there was a dog nearby, watching me. Just one
dog-- male, yellow-brown, sharp-eared, short-haired.
He wasn't big enough to make a meal of me, and I
still had the Smith & Wesson, so while he was
looking me over, I took a good look at him. He was
lean, but he didn't look starved. He looked alert and
curious. He sniffed the air, and I remembered that
dogs were supposed to be oriented more toward
scent than sight.
"Look at that," I said to Joanne Garfield who was
standing nearby.
She turned, gasped, and jerked her gun up to aim at
the dog. The dog vanished into the dry brush and
boulders. Turning, Joanne tried to look everywhere
as though she expected to see more dogs stalking
us, but there was nothing. She was shaking.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know you were afraid of
them."
She drew a deep breath and looked at the place
where the dog had been. "I didn't know I was either,"
she whispered. "I've never been so close to one
before. I. . . I wish I had gotten a better look at it."
At that moment, Aura Moss screamed and fired her
father's Llama automatic.
I pushed away from the boulder and turned to see
Aura pointing her gun toward some rocks and
babbling.
"It was over there!" she said, her words tumbling
over one another. "It was some kind of animal-- dirty
yellow with big teeth. It had its mouth open. It was
huge!"
"You stupid bitch, you almost shot me!" Michael
Talcott shouted. I could see now that he had ducked
down behind a boulder. He would have been in
Aura's line of fire, but he didn't seem to be hurt.
"Put your gun away, Aura," my father said. He kept
his voice low, but he was angry. I could see that,
whether Aura could or not.
"It was an animal," she insisted. "A big one. It might
still be around."
"Aura!" My father raised his voice and hardened it.
Aura looked at him, then seemed to realize that she
had more than a dog to worry about. She looked at
the gun in her hand, frowned, fumbled it safe, and
put it back into her holster.
"Mike?" my father said.
"I'm okay," Michael Talcott said. "No thanks to her!"
"It wasn't my fault," Aura said, right on cue. "There
was an animal. It could have killed you! It was
sneaking up on us!"
"I think it was just a dog," I said. "There was one
watching us over here. Joanne moved and it ran
away."
"You should have killed it," Peter Moss said. "What
do you want to do? Wait until it jumps someone."
"What was it doing?" Jay Garfield asked. "Just
watching?"
"That's all," I said. "It didn't look sick or starved. It
wasn't very big. I don't think it was a danger to
anyone here. There are too many of us, and we're
all too big."
"The thing I saw was huge," Aura insisted. "It had its
mouth open!"
I went over to her because I'd had a sudden thought.
"It was panting," I said. "They pant when they're hot.
It doesn't mean they're angry or hungry." I hesitated,
watching her. "You've never seen one before, have
you?"
She shook her head.
"They're bold, but they're not dangerous to a group
like this. You don't have to worry."
She didn't look as though she quite believed me, but
she seemed to relax a little. The Moss girls were
both bullied and sheltered. They were almost never
allowed to leave the walls of the neighborhood. They
were educated at home by their mothers according
to the religion their father had assembled, and they
were warned away from the sin and contamination of
the rest of the world. I'm surprised that Aura was
allowed to come to us for gun handling instruction
and target practice. I hope it will be good for her--
and I hope the rest of us will survive.
"All of you stay where you are," Dad said. He
glanced at Jay Garfield, then went a short way up
among the rocks and scrub oaks to see whether
Aura had shot anything. He kept his gun in his hand
and the safety off. He was out of our sight for no
more than a minute.
He came back with a look on his face that I couldn't
read. "Put your guns away," he said. "We're going
home."
"Did I kill it?" Aura demanded.
"No. Get your bikes." He and Jay Garfield whispered
together for a moment, and Jay Garfield sighed.
Joanne and I watched them, wondering, knowing we
wouldn't hear anything from them until they were
ready to tell us.
"This is not about a dead dog," Harold Balter said
behind us. Joanne moved back to stand beside him.
"It's about either a dog pack or a human pack," I
said, "or maybe it's a corpse."
It was, as I found out later, a family of corpses: A
woman, a little boy of about four years, and a
just-born infant, all partly eaten. But Dad didn't tell
me that until we got home. At the canyon, all we
knew was that he was upset.
"If there were a corpse around here, we would have
smelled it," Harry said.
"Not if it were fresh," I countered.
Joanne looked at me and sighed the way her father
sighs. "If it's that, I wonder where we'll go shooting
next time. I wonder when there'll be a next time."
Peter Moss and the Talcott brothers had gotten into
an argument over whose fault it was that Aura had
almost shot Michael, and Dad had to break it up.
Then Dad checked with Aura to see that she was all
right. He said a few things to her that I couldn't hear,
and I saw a tear slide down her face. She cries
easily. She always has.
Dad walked away from her looking harassed. He led
us up the path out of the canyon. We walked our
bikes, and we all kept looking around. We could see
now that there were other dogs nearby. We were
being watched by a big pack. Jay Garfield brought
up the rear, guarding our backs.
"He said we should stick together," Joanne told me.
She had seen me looking back at her father.
"You and I?"
"Yeah, and Harry. He said we should lookout for one
another."
"I don't think these dogs are stupid enough or hungry
enough to attack us in daylight. They'll go after some
lone street person tonight."
"Shut up, for godsake."
The road was narrow going up and out of the
canyon. It would have been a bad place to have to
fight off dogs. Someone could trip and step off the
crumbling edge. Someone could be knocked off the
edge by a dog or by one of us. That would mean
falling several hundred feet.
Down below, I could hear dogs fighting now. We
may have been close to their dens or whatever they
lived in. I thought maybe we were just close to what
they were feeding on.
"If they come," my father said in a quiet, even voice,
"Freeze, aim, and fire. That will save you. Nothing
else will. Freeze, aim, and fire. Keep your eyes open
and stay calm."
I replayed the words in my mind as we went up the
switchbacks. No doubt Dad wanted us to replay
them. I could see that Aura was still leaking tears
and smearing and streaking her face with dirt like a
little kid. She was too wrapped up in her own misery
and fear to be of much use.
We got almost to the top before anything happened.
We were beginning to relax, I think. I hadn't seen a
dog for a while. Then, from the front of our line, we
heard three shots.
We all froze, most of us unable to see what had
happened.
"Keep moving," my father called. "It's all right. It was
just one dog getting too close."
"Are you okay?" I called.
"Yes," he said. "Just come on and keep your eyes
open."
One by one, we came abreast of the dog that had
been shot and walked past it. It was a bigger, grayer
animal than the one I had seen. There was a beauty
to it. It looked like pictures I had seen of wolves. It
was wedged against a hanging boulder just a few
steps up the steep canyon wall from us.
It moved.
I saw its bloody wounds as it twisted. I bit my tongue
as the pain I knew it must feel became my pain.
What to do? Keep walking? I couldn't. One more
step and I would fall and lie in the dirt, helpless
against the pain. Or I might fall into the canyon.
"It's still alive," Joanne said behind me. "It's moving."
Its forefeet were making little running motions, its
claws scraping against the rock.
I thought I would throw up. My belly hurt more and
more until I felt skewered through the middle. I
leaned on my bike with my left arm. With my right
hand, I drew the Smith & Wesson, aimed, and shot
the beautiful dog through its head.
I felt the impact of the bullet as a hard, solid blow--
something beyond pain. Then I felt the dog die. I
saw it jerk, shudder, stretch its body long, then
freeze. I saw it die. I felt it die. It went out like a
match in a sudden vanishing of pain. Its life flared
up, then went out. I went a little numb. Without the
bike, I would have collapsed.
People had crowded close before and behind me. I
heard them before I could see them clearly.
"It's dead," I heard Joanne say. "Poor thing."
"What?" my father demanded. "Another one?"
I managed to focus on him. He must have skirted
close to the cliff-edge of the road to have gotten all
the way back to us. And he must have run.
"The same one," I said, managing to straighten up.
"It wasn't dead. We saw it moving."
"I put three bullets into it," he said.
"It was moving, Reverend Olamina," Joanne
insisted. "It was suffering. If Lauren hadn't shot it,
someone else would have had to."
Dad sighed. "Well, it isn't suffering now. Let's get out
of here." Then he seemed to realize what Joanne
had said. He looked at me. "Are you all right?"
I nodded. I don't know how I looked. No one was
reacting to me as though I looked odd, so I must not
have shown much of what I had gone through. I
think only Harry Balter, Curtis Talcott, and Joanne
had seen me shoot the dog. I looked at them and
Curtis grinned at me. He leaned against his bike and
in a slow, lazy motion, he drew an imaginary gun,
took careful aim at the dead dog, and fired an
imaginary shot.
"Pow," he said. "Just like she does stuff like that
every day. Pow!"
"Let's go," My father said.
We began walking up the path again. We left the
canyon and made our way down to the street. There
were no more dogs.
I walked, then rode in a daze, still not quite free of
the dog I had killed. I had felt it die, and yet I had not
died. I had felt its pain as though it were a human
being. I had felt its life flare and go out, and I was
still alive.
Pow.
5
Belief
Initiates and guides action--
Or it does nothing.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SUNDAY, MARCH 2, 2025
It's raining.
We heard last night on the radio that there was a
storm sweeping in from the Pacific, but most people
didn't believe it. "We'll have wind," Cory said. "Wind
and maybe a few drops of rain, or maybe just a little
cool weather. That would be welcome. It's all we'll
get."
That's all there has been for six years. I can
remember the rain six years ago, water swirling
around the back porch, not high enough to come
into the house, but high enough to attract my
brothers who wanted to play in it. Cory, forever
worried about infection, wouldn't let them. She said
they'd be splashing around in a soup of all the
waste-water germs we'd been watering our gardens
with for years. Maybe she was right, but kids all over
the neighborhood covered themselves with mud and
earthworms that day, and nothing terrible happened
to them.
But that storm was almost tropical-- a quick, hard,
warm, September rain, the edge of a hurricane that
hit Mexico's Pacific coast. This is a colder, winter
storm. It began this morning as people were coming
to church.
In the choir we sang rousing old hymns
accompanied by Cory's piano playing and lightning
and thunder from outside. It was wonderful. Some
people missed part of the sermon, though, because
they went home to put out all the barrels, buckets,
tubs, and pots they could find to catch the free
water. Others went home to put pots and buckets
inside where there were leaks in the roof.
I can't remember when any of us have had a roof
repaired by a professional. We all have Spanish tile
roofs, and that's good. A tile roof is, I suspect, more
secure and lasting than wood or asphalt shingles.
But time, wind, and earthquakes have taken a toll.
Tree limbs have done some damage, too. Yet no
one has extra money for anything as nonessential
as roof repair. At best, some of the neighborhood
men go up with whatever materials they can
scavenge and create makeshift patches. No one's
even done that for a while. If it only rains once every
six or seven years, why bother?
Our roof is all right so far, and the barrels and things
we put out after services this morning are full or
filling. Good, clean, free water from the sky. If only it
came more often.
MONDAY, MARCH 3, 2025
Still raining.
No thunder today, though there was some last night.
Steady drizzle, and occasional, heavy showers all
day. All day. So different and beautiful. I've never felt
so overwhelmed by water. I went out and walked in
the rain until I was soaked. Cory didn't want me to,
but I did it anyway. It was so wonderful. How can
she not understand that? It was so incredible and
wonderful.
TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 2025
Amy Dunn is dead.
Three years old, unloved, and dead. That doesn't
seem reasonable or even possible. She could read
simple words and count to thirty. I taught her. She so
much loved getting attention that she stuck to me
during school hours and drove me crazy. Didn't want
me to go to the bathroom without her.
Dead.
I had gotten to like her, even though she was a pest.
Today I walked her home after class. I had gotten
into the habit of walking her home because the
Dunns wouldn't send anyone for her.
"She knows the way," Christmas said. "Just send
her over. She'll get here all right."
I didn't doubt that she could have. She could look
across the street, and across the center island, and
see her house from ours, but Amy had a tendency to
wander. Sent home alone, she might get there or
she might wind up in the Montoya garden, grazing,
or in the Moss rabbit house, trying to let the rabbits
out. So I walked her across, glad for an excuse to
get out in the rain again. Amy loved it, too, and we
lingered for a moment under the big avocado tree on
the island. There was a navel orange tree at the
back end of the island, and I picked a pair of ripe
oranges-- one for Amy and one for me. I peeled both
of them, and we ate them while the rain plastered
Amy's scant colorless hair against her head and
made her look bald.
I took her to her door and left her in the care of her
mother.
"You didn't have to get her so wet," Tracy
complained.
"Might as well enjoy the rain while it lasts," I said,
and I left them.
I saw Tracy take Amy into the house and shut the
door. Yet somehow Amy wound up outside again,
wound up near the front gate, just opposite the
Garfield/Balter/Dory house. Jay Garfield found her
there when he came out to investigate what he
thought was another bundle that someone had
thrown over the gate. People toss us things
sometimes-- gifts of envy and hate: A maggoty, dead
animal, a bag of shit, even an occasional severed
human limb or a dead child. Dead adults have been
left lying just beyond our wall. But these were all
outsiders. Amy was one of us.
Someone shot Amy right through the metal gate. It
had to be an accidental hit because you can't see
through our gate from the outside. The shooter
either fired at someone who was in front of the gate
or fired at the gate itself, at the neighborhood, at us
and our supposed wealth and privilege. Most bullets
wouldn't have gotten through the gate. It's supposed
to be bulletproof. But it's been penetrated a couple
of times before, high up, near the top. Now we have
six new bullet holes in the lower portion-- six holes
and a seventh dent, a long, smooth gauge where a
bullet had glanced off without breaking through.
We hear so much gunfire, day and night, single
shots and odd bursts of automatic weapons fire,
even occasional blasts from heavy artillery or
explosions from grenades or bigger bombs. We
worry most about those last things, but they're rare.
It's harder to steal big weapons, and not many
people around here can afford to buy the illegal
ones-- or that's what Dad says. The thing is, we hear
gunfire so much that we don't hear it. A couple of the
Balter kids said they heard shooting, but as usual,
they paid no attention to it. It was outside, beyond
the wall, after all. Most of us heard nothing except
the rain.
Amy was going to turn four in a couple of weeks. I
had planned to give her a little party with my
kindergartners.
God, I hate this place.
I mean, I love it. It's home. These are my people. But
I hate it. It's like an island surrounded by sharks--
except that sharks don't bother you unless you go in
the water. But our land sharks are on their way in.
It's just a matter of how long it takes for them to get
hungry enough.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 5, 2025
I walked in the rain again this morning. It was cold,
but good. Amy has already been cremated. I wonder
if her mother is relieved. She doesn't look relieved.
She never liked Amy, but now she cries. I don't think
she's faking. The family has spent money it could
not afford to get the police involved to try to find the
killer. I suspect that the only good this will do will be
to chase away the people who live on the sidewalks
and streets nearest to our wall. Is that good? The
street poor will be back, and they won't love us for
sicking the cops on them. It's illegal to camp out on
the street the way they do-- the way they must-- so
the cops knock them around, rob them if they have
anything worth stealing, then order them away or jail
them. The miserable will be made even more
miserable. None of that can help Amy. I suppose,
though, that it will make the Dunns feel better about
the way they treated her.
On Saturday, Dad will preach Amy's funeral. I wish I
didn't have to be there. Funerals have never
bothered me before, but this one does.
"You cared about Amy," Joanne Garfield said to me
when I complained to her. We had lunch together
today. We ate in my bedroom because it's still
raining off and on, and the rest of the house was full
of all the kids who hadn't gone home to eat lunch.
But my room is still mine. It's the one place in the
world where I can go and not be followed by anyone
I don't invite in. I'm the only person I know who has a
bedroom to herself. These days, even Dad and Cory
knock before they open my door. That's one of the
best things about being the only daughter in the
family. I have to kick my brothers out of here all the
time, but at least I can kick them out. Joanne is an
only child, but she shares a room with three younger
girl cousins-- whiny Lisa, always demanding and
complaining, smart, giggly Robin with her
near-genius I.Q., and invisible Jessica who whispers
and stares at her feet and cries if you give her a dirty
look. All three are Balters-- Harry's sisters and the
children of Joanne's mother's sister. The two adult
sisters, their husbands, their eight children, and their
parents Mr. and Mrs. Dory are all squeezed into one
five-bedroom house. It isn't the most crowded house
in the neighborhood, but I'm glad I don't have to live
like that.
"Almost no one cared about Amy," Joanne said. "But
you did."
"After the fire, I did," I said. "I got scared for her then.
Before that, I ignored her like everyone else."
"So now you're feeling guilty?"
"No."
"Yes, you are."
I looked at her, surprised. "I mean it. No. I hate that
she's dead, and I miss her, but I didn't cause her
death. I just can't deny what all this says about us."
"What?"
I felt on the verge of talking to her about things I
hadn't talked about before. I'd written about them.
Sometimes I write to keep from going crazy. There's
a world of things I don't feel free to talk to anyone
about.
But Joanne is a friend. She knows me better than
most people, and she has a brain. Why not talk to
her? Sooner or later, I have to talk to someone.
"What's wrong?" she asked. She had opened a
plastic container of bean salad. Now she put it down
on my night table.
"Don't you ever wonder if maybe Amy and Mrs. Sims
are the lucky ones?" I asked. "I mean, don't you ever
wonder what's going to happen to the rest of us."
There was a clap of dull, muffled thunder, and a
sudden heavy shower. Radio weather reports say
today's rain will be the last of the four-day series of
storms. I hope not.
"Sure I think about it," Joanne said. "With people
shooting little kids, how can I not think about it?"
"People have been killing little kids since there've
been people," I said.
"Not in here, they haven't. Not until now."
"Yes, that's it, isn't it. We got a wake-up call. Another
one."
"What are you talking about?"
"Amy was the first of us to be killed like that. She
won't be the last."
Joanne sighed, and there was a little shudder in the
sigh. "So you think so, too."
"I do. But I didn't know you thought about it at all."
"Rape, robbery, and now murder. Of course I think
about it. Everyone thinks about it. Everyone worries.
I wish I could get out of here."
"Where would you go?"
"That's it, isn't it? There's nowhere to go."
"There might be."
"Not if you don't have money. Not if all you know
how to do is take care of babies and cook."
I shook my head. "You know much more than that."
"Maybe, but none of it matters. I won't be able to
afford college. I won't be able to get a job or move
out of my parents' house because no job I could get
would support me and there are no safe places to
move. Hell, my parents are still living with their
parents."
"I know," I said. "And as bad as that is, there's
more."
"Who needs more? That's enough!" She began to
eat the bean salad. It looked good, but I thought I
might be about to ruin it for her.
"There's cholera spreading in southern Mississippi
and Louisiana," I said. "I heard about it on the radio
yesterday. There are too many poor people--
illiterate, jobless, homeless, without decent
sanitation or clean water. They have plenty of water
down there, but a lot of it is polluted. And you know
that drug that makes people want to set fires?"
She nodded, chewing.
"It's spreading again. It was on the east coast. Now
it's in Chicago. The reports say that it makes
watching a fire better than sex. I don't know whether
the reporters are condemning it or advertising it." I
drew a deep breath. "Tornadoes are smashing hell
out of Alabama, Kentucky, Tennessee, and two or
three other states. Three hundred people dead so
far. And there's a blizzard freezing the northern
midwest, killing even more people. In New York and
New Jersey, a measles epidemic is killing people.
Measles!"
"I heard about the measles," Joanne said. "Strange.
Even if people can't afford immunizations, measles
shouldn't kill."
"Those people are half dead already," I told her.
"They've come through the winter cold, hungry,
already sick with other diseases. And, no, of course
they can't afford immunizations. We're lucky our
parents found the money to pay for all our
immunizations. If we have kids, I don't see how we'll
be able to do even that for them.
"I know, I know." She sounded almost bored.
"Things are bad. My mother is hoping this new guy,
President Donner, will start to get us back to
normal."
"Normal," I muttered. "I wonder what that is. Do you
agree with your mother?"
"No. Donner hasn't got a chance. I think he would fix
things if he could, but Harry says his ideas are scary.
Harry says he'll set the country back a hundred
years."
"My father says something like that. I'm surprised
that Harry agrees."
"He would. His own father thinks Donner is God.
Harry wouldn't agree with him on anything."
I laughed, distracted, thinking about Harry's battles
with his father. Neighborhood fireworks-- plenty of
flash, but no real fire.
"Why do you want to talk about this stuff," Joanne
asked, bringing me back to the real fire. "We can't do
anything about it."
"We have to."
"Have to what? We're 15! What can we do?"
"We can get ready. That's what we've got to do now.
Get ready for what's going to happen, get ready to
survive it, get ready to make a life afterward. Get
focused on arranging to survive so that we can do
more than just get batted around by crazy people,
desperate people, thugs, and leaders who don't
know what they're doing!"
She just stared at me. "I don't know what you're
talking about."
I was rolling-- too fast, maybe. "I'm talking about this
place, Jo, this cul-de-sac with a wall around it. I'm
talking about the day a big gang of those hungry,
desperate, crazy people outside decide to come in.
I'm talking about what we've got to do before that
happens so that we can survive and rebuild-- or at
least survive and escape to be something other than
beggars."
"Someone's going to just smash in our wall and
come in?"
"More likely blast it down, or blast the gate open. It's
going to happen some day. You know that as well as
I do."
"Oh, no I don't," she protested. She sat up straight,
almost stiff, her lunch forgotten for the moment. I bit
into a piece of acorn bread that was full of dried fruit
and nuts. It's a favorite of mine, but I managed to
chew and swallow without tasting it.
"Jo, we're in for trouble. You've already admitted
that."
"Sure," she said. "More shootings, more break-ins.
That's what I meant."
"And that's what will happen for a while. I wish I
could guess how long. We'll be hit and hit and hit,
then the big hit will come. And if we're not ready for
it, it will be like Jericho."
She held herself rigid, rejecting. "You don't know
that! You can't read the future. No one can."
"You can," I said, "if you want to. It's scary, but once
you get past the fear, it's easy. In L.A. some walled
communities bigger and stronger than this one just
aren't there any more. Nothing left but ruins, rats,
and squatters. What happened to them can happen
to us. We'll die in here unless we get busy now and
work out ways to survive."
"If you think that, why don't you tell your parents?
Warn them and see what they say."
"I intend to as soon as I think of a way to do it that
will reach them. Besides. . . . I think they already
know. I think my father does, anyway. I think most of
the adults know. They don't want to know, but they
do."
"My mother could be right about Donner. He really
could do some good."
"No. No, Donner's just a kind of human banister."
"A what?"
"I mean he's like. . .like a symbol of the past for us to
hold on to as we're pushed into the future. He's
nothing. No substance. But having him there, the
latest in a two-and-a-half-century-long line of
American presidents makes people feel that the
country, the culture that they grew up with is still
here-- that we'll get through these bad times and
back to normal."
"We could," she said. "We might. I think someday
we will. " No, she didn't. She was too bright to take
anything but the most superficial comfort from her
denial. But even superficial comfort is better than
none, I guess. I tried another tactic.
"Did you ever read about bubonic plague in
medieval Europe?" I asked.
She nodded. She reads a lot the way I do, reads all
kinds of things. "A lot of the continent was
depopulated," she said. "Some survivors thought the
world was coming to an end."
"Yes, but once they realized it wasn't, they also
realized there was a lot of vacant land available for
the taking, and if they had a trade, they realized they
could demand better pay for their work. A lot of
things changed for the survivors."
"What's your point?"
"The changes." I thought for a moment. "They were
slow changes compared to anything that might
happen here, but it took a plague to make some of
the people realize that things could change."
"So?"
"Things are changing now, too. Our adults haven't
been wiped out by a plague so they're still anchored
in the past, waiting for the good old days to come
back. But things have changed a lot, and they'll
change more. Things are always changing. This is
just one of the big jumps instead of the little
step-by-step changes that are easier to take. People
have changed the climate of the world. Now they're
waiting for the old days to come back."
"Your father says he doesn't believe people changed
the climate in spite of what scientists say. He says
only God could change the world in such an
important way."
"Do you believe him?"
She opened her mouth, looked at me, then closed it
again. After a while, she said, "I don't know."
"My father has his blind spots," I said. "He's the best
person I know, but even he has his blind spots."
"It doesn't make any difference," she said. "We can't
make the climate change back, no matter why it
changed in the first place. You and I can't. The
neighborhood can't. We can't do anything."
I lost patience. "Then let's kill ourselves now and be
done with it!"
She frowned, her round, too serious face almost
angry. She tore bits of peel from a small navel
orange. "What then?" she demanded. "What can we
do?"
I put the last bite of my acorn bread down and went
around her to my night table. I took several books
from the deep bottom drawer and showed them to
her. "This is what I've been doing-- reading and
studying these over the past few months. These
books are old like all the books in this house. I've
also been using Dad's computer when he lets me--
to get new stuff."
Frowning, she looked them over. Three books on
survival in the wilderness, three on guns and
shooting, two each on handling medical
emergencies, California native and naturalized
plants and their uses, and basic living: log
cabin-building, livestock raising, plant cultivation,
soap making-- that kind of thing. Joanne caught on
at once.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "Trying to learn to
live off the land?"
"I'm trying to learn whatever I can that might help me
survive out there. I think we should all study books
like these. I think we should bury money and other
necessities in the ground where thieves won't find
them. I think we should make emergency packs--
grab and run packs-- in case we have to get out of
here in a hurry. Money, food, clothing, matches, a
blanket. . . . I think we should fix places outside
where we can meet in case we get separated. Hell, I
think a lot of things. And I know-- I know!-- that no
matter how many things I think of, they won't be
enough. Every time I go outside, I try to imagine
what it might be like to live out there without walls,
and I realize I don't know anything."
"Then why-- "
"I intend to survive."
She just stared.
"I mean to learn everything I can while I can," I said.
"If I find myself outside, maybe what I've learned will
help me live long enough to learn more."
She gave me a nervous smile. "You've been reading
too many adventure stories," she said.
I frowned. How could I reach her. "This isn't a joke,
Jo."
"What is it then?" She ate the last section of her
orange. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be serious. I realize I don't know very
much. None of us knows very much. But we can all
learn more. Then we can teach one another. We can
stop denying reality or hoping it will go away by
magic."
"That's not what I'm doing."
I looked out for a moment at the rain, calming
myself.
"Okay. Okay, what are you doing?"
She looked uncomfortable. "I'm still not sure we can
really do anything."
"Jo!"
"Tell me what I can do that won't get me in trouble or
make everyone think I'm crazy. Just tell me
something."
At last. "Have you read all your family's books?"
"Some of them. Not all. They aren't all worth reading.
Books aren't going to save us."
"Nothing is going to save us. If we don't save
ourselves, we're dead. Now use your imagination. Is
there anything on your family bookshelves that might
help you if you were stuck outside?"
"No."
"You answer too fast. Go home and look again. And
like I said, use your imagination. Any kind of survival
information from encyclopedias, biographies,
anything that helps you learn to live off the land and
defend ourselves. Even some fiction might be
useful."
She gave me a sidelong glance. "I'll bet," she said.
"Jo, if you never need this information, it won't do
you any harm. You'll just know a little more than you
did before. So what? By the way, do you take notes
when you read?"
Guarded look. "Sometimes."
"Read this." I handed her one of the plant books.
This one was about California Indians, the plants
they used, and how they used them-- an interesting,
entertaining little book. She would be surprised.
There was nothing in it to scare her or threaten her
or push her. I thought I had already done enough of
that.
"Take notes," I told her. "You'll remember better if
you do."
"I still don't believe you," she said. "Things don't
have to be as bad as you say they are."
I put the book into her hands. "Hang on to your
notes," I said. "Pay special attention to the plants
that grow between here and the coast and between
here and Oregon along the coast. I've marked
them."
"I said I don't believe you."
"I don't care."
She looked down at the book, ran her hands over
the black cloth-and-cardboard binding. "So we learn
to eat grass and live in the bushes," she muttered.
"We learn to survive," I said. "It's a good book. Take
care of it. You know how my father is about his
books."
THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 2025
The rain stopped. My windows are on the north side
of the house, and I can see the clouds breaking up.
They're being blown over the mountains toward the
desert. Surprising how fast they can move. The wind
is strong and cold now. It might cost us a few trees.
I wonder how many years it will be before we see
rain again.
6
Drowning people
Sometimes die
Fighting their rescuers.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 2025
Joanne told.
She told her mother who told her father who told my
father who had one of those serious talks with me.
Damn her. Damn her!
I saw her today at the service we had for Amy and
yesterday at school. She didn't say a word about
what she had done. It turns out she told her mother
on Thursday. Maybe it was supposed to be a secret
between them or something. But, oh, Phillida
Garfield was so concerned for me, so worried. And
she didn't like my scaring Joanne. Was Joanne
scared? Not scared enough to use her brain, it
seems. Joanne always seemed so sensible. Did she
think getting me into trouble would make the danger
go away? No, that's not it. This is just more denial: A
dumb little game of "If we don't talk about bad things,
maybe they won't happen." Idiot! I'll never be able to
tell her anything important again.
What if I'd been more open. What if I'd talked religion
with her? I'd wanted to. How will I ever be able to
talk to anyone about that?
What I did say worked its way back to me tonight.
Mr. Garfield talked to Dad after the funeral. It was
like the whispering game that little kids play. The
message went all the way from, "We're in danger
here and we're going to have to work hard to save
ourselves." to "Lauren is talking about running away
because she's afraid that outsiders are going to riot
and tear down the walls and kill us all."
Well, I had said some of that, and Joanne had made
it clear that she didn't agree with me. But I hadn't just
let the bad predictions stand alone: "We're going to
die, boo-hoo." What would be the point of that? Still,
only the negative stuff came home to me.
"Lauren, what did you say to Joanne?" my father
demanded. He came to my room after dinner when
he should have been doing his final work on
tomorrow's sermon. He sat down on my one chair
and stared at me in a way that meant, "Where is
your mind, girl? What's the matter with you?" That
look plus Joanne's name told me what had
happened, what this was about. My friend Joanne.
Damn her!
I sat on my bed and looked back at him. "I told her
we were in for some bad, dangerous times," I said. "I
warned her we ought to learn what we could now so
we could survive."
That was when he told me how upset Joanne's
mother was, how upset Joanne was, and how they
both thought I needed to "talk to someone," because
I thought our world was coming to an end.
"Do you think our world is coming to an end?" Dad
asked, and with no warning at all, I almost started
crying. I had all I could do to hold it back. What I
thought was, "No, I think your world is coming to an
end, and maybe you with it." That was terrible. I
hadn't thought about it in such a personal way
before. I turned and looked out a window until I felt
calmer. When I faced him again, I said. "Yes. Don't
you?"
He frowned. I don't think he expected me to say that.
"You're fifteen," he said. "You don't really
understand what's going on here. The problems we
have now have been building since long before you
were born."
"I know."
He was still frowning. I wondered what he wanted
me to say. "What were you doing, then?" he asked.
"Why did you say those things to Joanne?"
I decided to go on telling the truth for as long as I
could. I hate to lie to him. "What I said was true," I
insisted.
"You don't have to say everything you think you
know," he said. "Haven't you figured that out yet?"
"Joanne and I were friends," I said. "I thought I could
talk to her."
He shook his head. "These things frighten people.
It's best not to talk about them."
"But, Dad, that's like. . .like ignoring a fire in the
living room because we're all in the kitchen, and,
besides, house fires are too scary to talk about."
"Don't warn Joanne or any of your other friends," he
said. "Not now. I know you think you're right, but
you're not doing anyone any good. You're just
panicking people."
I managed to suppress a surge of anger by shifting
the subject a little. Sometimes the way to move Dad
is to go at him from several directions.
"Did Mr. Garfield give you back your book?" I asked.
"What book?"
"I loaned Joanne a book about California plants and
the way Indians used them. It was one of your
books. I'm sorry I loaned it to her. It's so neutral, I
didn't think it could cause trouble. But I guess it has."
He looked startled, then he almost smiled. "Yes, I
will have to have that one back, all right. You
wouldn't have the acorn bread you like so much
without that one-- not to mention a few other things
we take for granted."
"Acorn bread. . . ?"
He nodded. "Most of the people in this country don't
eat acorns, you know. They have no tradition of
eating them, they don't know how to prepare them,
and for some reason, they find the idea of eating
them disgusting. Some of our neighbors wanted to
cut down all our big live oak trees and plant
something useful. You wouldn't believe the time I
had changing their minds."
"What did people eat before?"
"Bread made of wheat and other grains-- corn, rye,
oats. . .things like that."
"Too expensive!"
"Didn't use to be. You get that book back from
Joanne." He drew a deep breath. "Now, let's get off
the side track and back onto the main track. What
were you planning? Did you try to talk Joanne into
running away?"
Then I sighed. "Of course not."
"Her father says you did."
"He's wrong. This was about staying alive, learning
to live outside so that we'd be able to if we ever had
to."
He watched me as though he could read the truth in
my mind. When I was little, I used to think he could.
"All right," he said. "You may have meant well, but
no more scare talk."
I thought he would yell at me or punish me. His voice
had had that warning edge to it that my brothers and
I had come to call the rattle-- as in a rattlesnake's
warning sound. If you pushed him past the rattle,
you were in trouble. If he called you "son" or
"daughter" you were close to trouble.
"Why?" I insisted.
"Because you don't have any idea what you're
doing," he said. He frowned and rubbed his
forehead. When he spoke again, the edge went out
of his voice. "It's better to teach people than to scare
them, Lauren. If you scare them and nothing
happens, they lose their fear, and you lose some of
your authority with them. It's harder to scare them a
second time, harder to teach them, harder to win
back their trust. Best to begin by teaching." His
mouth crooked into a little smile. "It's interesting that
you chose to begin your efforts with the book you
lent to Joanne. Did you ever think of teaching from
that book?"
"Teaching. . .my kindergartners?"
"Why not. Get them started on the right foot. You
could even put together a class for older kids and
adults. Something like Mr. Ibarra's wood carving
class, Mrs. Balter's needlework classes, and young
Robert Hsu's astronomy lectures. People are bored.
They wouldn't mind another informal class now that
they've lost the Yannis television. If you can think of
ways to entertain them and teach them at the same
time, you'll get your information out. And all without
making anyone look down."
"Look down. . .?"
"Into the abyss, Daughter," But I wasn't in trouble
any more. Not at the moment. "You've just noticed
the abyss," he continued. "The adults in this
community have been balancing at the edge of it for
more years than you've been alive."
I got up, went over to him and took his hand. "It's
getting worse, Dad."
"I know."
"Maybe it's time to look down. Time to look for some
hand and foot holds before we just get pushed in."
"That's why we have target practice every week and
Lazor wire and our emergency bell. Your idea for
emergency packs is a good one. Some people
already have them. For earthquakes. Some will
assemble them if I suggest it. And, of course, some
won't do anything at all. There are always people
who won't do anything."
"Will you suggest it?"
"Yes. At the next neighborhood association
meeting."
"What else can we do? None of this is fast enough."
"It will have to be." He stood up, a tall, broad wall of
a man. "Why don't you ask around, see if anyone in
the neighborhoods knows anything about martial
arts. You need more than a book or two to learn
good dependable unarmed combat."
I blinked. "Okay."
"Check with old Mr. Hsu and Mr. and Mrs. Montoya."
"Mr. and Mrs.?"
"I think so. Talk to them about classes, not about
Armageddon."
I looked up at him, and he looked more like a wall
than ever, standing and waiting. And he had offered
me a lot-- all I would get, I suspected. I sighed.
"Okay, Dad, I promise. I'll try not to scare anyone
else. I just hope things hold together long enough for
us to do it your way."
And he echoed my sigh. "At last. Good. Now come
out back with me. There are some important things
buried in the yard in sealed containers. It's time for
you to know where they are-- just in case."
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2025
Today, Dad preached from Genesis six, Noah and
the ark: "And God saw that the wickedness of man
was great in the earth, and that every imagination of
the thoughts and of his heart was only evil
continually. And it repented the Lord that he had
made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his
heart. And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I
have created from the face of the earth; both man,
and beast, and the creeping thing and the fowls of
the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.
But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord."
And then, of course, later God says to Noah, "Make
thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make
in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with
pitch."
Dad focused on the two-part nature of this situation.
God decides to destroy everything except Noah, his
family, and some animals. But if Noah is going to be
saved, he has plenty of hard work to do.
Joanne came to me after church and said she was
sorry for all the craziness.
"Okay," I said.
"Still friends?" she asked.
And I hedged: "Not enemies, anyway. Get my
father's book back to me. He wants it."
"My mother took it. I didn't know she'd get so upset."
"It isn't hers. Get it back to me. Or have your dad
give it to mine. I don't care. But he wants his book."
"All right."
I watched her leave the house. She looks so
trustworthy -- tall and straight and serious and
intelligent-- I still feel inclined to trust her. But I can't.
I don't. She has no idea how much she could have
hurt me if I had given her just a few more words to
use against me. I don't think I'll ever trust her again,
and I hate that. She was my best friend. Now she
isn't.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12, 2025
Garden thieves got in last night. They stripped citrus
trees of fruit in the Hsu yard and the Talcott yard. In
the process, they trampled what was left of winter
gardens and much of the spring planting.
Dad says we have to set up a regular watch. He
tried to call a neighborhood association meeting for
tonight, but it's a work night for some people,
including Gary Hsu who sleeps over at his job
whenever he has to report in person. We're
supposed to get together for a meeting on Saturday.
Meanwhile, Dad got Jay Garfield, Wyatt and Kayla
Talcott, Alex Montoya, and Edwin Dunn together to
patrol the neighborhood in shifts in armed pairs. That
meant that except for the Talcotts who are already a
pair (and who are so angry about their garden that I
pity any thief who gets in their way), the others have
to find partners among the other adults of the
neighborhood.
"Find someone you trust to protect your back," I
heard Dad tell the little group. Each pair was to
patrol for two hours from just before dark to just after
dawn. The first patrol, walking through or looking into
all the back yards would get people used to the idea
of watchers while they were still awake enough to
understand.
"Make sure they see you if you get first watch," Dad
said. "The sight of you will remind them that there
will be watchers all through the night. We don't want
any of them mistaking you for thieves."
Sensible. People go to bed soon after dark to save
electricity, but between dinner and darkness they
spend time on their porches or in their yards where it
isn't so hot. Some listen to their radio on front or
back porches. Now and then people get together to
play music, sing, play board games, talk, or get out
on the paved part of the street for volleyball, touch
football, basketball, or tennis. People used to play
baseball, but we just can't afford what that costs in
windows. A few people just find a corner and read a
book while there's still daylight. It's a good,
comfortable, recreational time. What a pity to spoil it
with reminders of reality. But it can't be helped.
"What will you do if you catch a thief?" Cory asked
my father before he went out. He was on the second
shift, and he and Cory were having a rare cup of
coffee together in the kitchen while he waited.
Coffee was for special occasions. I couldn't miss the
good smell of it in my room where I lay awake.
I eavesdrop. I don't put drinking glasses to walls or
crouch with my ear against doors, but I do often lie
awake long after dark when we kids are all
supposed to be asleep. The kitchen is across the
hall from my room, the dining room is nearby at the
end of the hall, and my parents' room is next door.
The house is old and well insulated. If there's a shut
door between me and the conversation, I can't hear
much. But at night with all or most of the lights out, I
can leave my door open a crack, and if other doors
are also open, I can hear a lot. I learn a lot.
"We'll chase him off, I hope," Dad said. "We've
agreed to that. We'll give him a good scare and let
him know there are easier ways to get a dollar."
"A dollar. . . ?"
"Yes, indeed. Our thieves didn't steal all that food
because they were hungry. They stripped those
trees-- took everything they could."
"I know," Cory said. "I took some lemons and
grapefruits to both the Hsus and the Wyatts today
and told them they could pick from our trees when
they needed more. I took them some seed, too.
They both had a lot of young plants trampled, but
this early in the season, they should be able to
repair the damage."
"Yes." My father paused. "But you see my point.
People steal that way for money. They're not
desperate. Just greedy and dangerous. We might be
able to scare them into looking for easier pickings."
"But what if you can't?" Cory asked, almost
whispering. Her voice fell so low that I was afraid I
would miss something.
"If you can't, will you shoot them?"
"Yes," he said.
". . .yes?" she repeated in that same small voice.
"Just. . .'yes?'" She was like Joanne all over again--
denial personified. What planet do people like that
live on?
"Yes," my father said.
"Why!"
There was a long silence. When my father spoke
again, his own voice had gone very soft. "Baby, if
these people steal enough, they'll force us to spend
more than we can afford on food-- or go hungry. We
live on the edge as it is." You know how hard things
are."
"But. . .couldn't we just call the police?"
"For what? We can't afford their fees, and anyway,
they're not interested until after a crime has been
committed. Even then, if you call them, they won't
show up for hours-- maybe not for two or three
days."
"I know."
"What are you saying then? You want the kids to go
hungry? You want thieves coming into the house
once they've stripped the gardens?"
"But they haven't done that."
"Of course they have. Mrs. Sims was only their latest
victim."
"She lived alone. We always said she shouldn't do
that."
"You want to trust them not to hurt you or the kids
just because there are seven of us? Baby, we can't
live by pretending this is still twenty or thirty years
ago."
"But you could go to jail!" She was crying-- not
sobbing, but speaking with that voice-full-of-tears
that she can manage sometimes.
"No," Dad said. "If we have to shoot someone, we're
together in it. After we've shot him we carry him into
the nearest house. It's still legal to shoot
housebreakers. After that we do a little damage and
get our stories straight."
Long, long silence. "You could still get in trouble."
"I'll risk it."
Another long silence. "`Thou shalt not kill,'" Cory
whispered.
"Nehemiah four," Dad said. "Verse 14."
There was nothing more. A few minutes later, I
heard Dad leave. I waited until I heard Cory go to
her room and shut the door. Then I got up, shut my
door, moved my lamp so the light wouldn't show
under the door, then turned it on and opened my
grandmother's Bible. She had had a lot of Bibles and
Dad had let me keep this one.
Nehemiah, chapter four, Verse 14: "And I looked
and rose up and said unto the nobles, and to the
rulers, and to the rest of the people, be not afraid of
them: remember the Lord which is great and terrible,
and fight for your brethren, your sons, and your
daughters, your wives and your houses."
Interesting. Interesting that Dad had that verse
ready, and that Cory recognized it. Maybe they've
had this conversation before.
SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 2025
It's official.
Now we have a regular neighborhood watch-- a
roster of people from every household who are over
eighteen, good with guns-- their own and others'--
and considered responsible by my father and by the
people who have already been patrolling the
neighborhood. Since none of the watchers have
ever been cops or security guards, they'll go on
working in pairs, watching out for each other as well
as for the neighborhood. They'll use whistles to call
for help if they need it. Also, they'll meet once a
week to read, discuss, and practice martial arts and
shoot-out techniques. The Montoyas will give their
martial arts classes, all right, but not at my
suggestion. Old Mr. Hsu is having back problems,
and he won't be teaching anything for a while, but
the Montoyas seem to be enough. I plan to sit in on
the classes as often as I can stand to share
everyone's practice pains.
Dad has collected all his books from me this
morning. All I have left are my notes. I don't mind.
Thanks to the garden thieves, people are preparing
themselves for the worst. I feel almost grateful to the
thieves.
They haven't come back, by the way-- our thieves.
When they do, we should be able to give them
something they don't expect.
SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 2025
Our thieves paid us another visit last night.
Maybe they weren't the same ones, but their
intentions were the same: To take away what
someone else has sweated to grow and very much
needs.
This time they were after Richard Moss's rabbits.
Those rabbits are the neighborhood's only livestock
except for some chickens the Cruz and Montoya
families tried to raise a few years ago. Those were
stolen as soon as they were old enough to make
noise and let outsiders know they were there. The
Moss rabbits have been our secret until this year
when Richard Moss insisted on selling meat and
whatever his wives could make from raw or tanned
rabbit hides out beyond the wall. The Mosses had
been selling to us all along, of course, meat, hides,
fertilizer, everything except live rabbits. Those he
hoarded as breeding stock. But now, stubborn,
arrogant, and greedy, he had decided he could earn
more if he peddled his merchandise outside. So,
now the word is out on the street about the damned
rabbits, and last night someone came to get them.
The Moss rabbit house is a converted three-car
garage added to the property in the 1980s according
to Dad. It's hard to believe any household once had
three cars, and gas fueled cars at that. But I
remember the old garage before Richard Moss
converted it. It was huge with three black oil spots on
the floor where three cars had once been housed.
Richard Moss repaired the walls and roof, put in
windows for cross ventilation, and in general, made
the place almost fit for people to live in. In fact, it's
much better than what a lot of people live in now on
the outside. He built rows and tiers of cages--
hutches-- and put in more electric lights and ceiling
fans. The fans can be made to work on kid power.
He's hooked them up to an old bicycle frame, and
every Moss kid who's old enough to manage the
pedals sooner or later gets drafted into powering the
fans. The Moss kids hate it, but they know what
they'll get if they don't do it.
I don't know how many rabbits the Mosses have
now, but it seems they're always killing and skinning
and doing disgusting things to pelts. Even a little
monopoly is worth a lot of trouble.
The two thieves had managed to stuff 13 rabbits into
canvas sacks by the time our watchers spotted
them. The watchers were Alejandro Montoya and
Julia Lincoln, one of Shani Yannis's sisters. Mrs.
Montoya has two kids sick with flu so she's off the
watch roster for a while.
Mrs. Lincoln and Mr. Montoya followed the plan that
the group of watchers had put together at their
meetings. Without a word of command or warning,
they fired their guns into the air two or three times
each, at the same time, blowing their whistles full
blast. They kept to cover, but inside the Moss house,
someone woke up and turned on the rabbit house
lights. That could have been a lethal mistake for the
watchers, but they were hidden behind pomegranate
bushes.
The two thieves ran like rabbits.
Abandoning sacks, rabbits, pry bars, a long coil of
rope, wire cutters, and even an excellent long
aluminum ladder, they scrambled up that ladder and
over the wall in seconds. Our wall is three meters
high and topped off with pieces of broken glass as
well as the usual barbed wire and the all but invisible
Lazor wire. All the wire had been cut in spite of our
efforts. What a pity we couldn't afford to electrify it or
set other traps. But at least the glass-- the oldest,
simplest of our tricks-- had gotten one of them. We
found a broad stream of dried blood down the inside
of the wall this morning.
We also found a Glock 19 pistol where one of the
thieves had dropped it. Mrs. Lincoln and Mr.
Montoya could have been shot. If the thieves hadn't
been scared out of their minds, there could have
been a gun battle. Someone in the Moss house or a
neighboring house could have been hurt or killed.
Cory went after Dad about that once they were
alone in the kitchen tonight.
"I know," Dad said. He sounded tired and miserable.
"Don't think we haven't thought about those things.
That's why we want to scare the thieves away. Even
shooting into the air isn't safe. Nothing's safe."
"They ran away this time, but they won't always run."
"I know."
"So what, then? You protect rabbits or oranges, and
maybe get a child killed?"
Silence.
"We can't live this way!" Cory shouted. I jumped. I've
never heard her sound like that before.
"We do live this way," Dad said. There was no anger
in his voice, no emotional response at all to her
shouting. There was nothing. Weariness. Sadness.
I've never heard him sound so tired, so. . . almost
beaten. And yet he had won. His idea had beaten off
a pair of armed thieves without our having to hurt
anyone. If the thieves had hurt themselves, that was
their problem.
Of course they would come back, or others would
come. That would happen no matter what. And Cory
was right. The next thieves might not lose their guns
and run away. So what? Should we lie in our beds
and let them take all we had and hope they were
content with stripping our gardens? How long does a
thief stay content? And what's it like to starve?
"We couldn't make it without you," Cory was saying.
She wasn't shouting now. "That could have been
you out there, facing criminals. Next time it might be
you. You could be shot, protecting the neighbors'
rabbits."
"Did you notice," Dad said, "that every off-duty
watcher answered the whistles last night? They
came out to defend their community."
"I don't care about them! It's you I'm worried about!"
"No," he said. "We can't think that way any more.
Cory, there's nobody to help us but God and
ourselves. I protect Moss's place in spite of what I
think of him, and he protects mine, no matter what
he thinks of me. We all look out for one another." He
paused. "I've got plenty of insurance. You and the
kids should be able to make it all right if-- "
"No!" Cory said. "Do you think that's all it is? Money?
Do you think-- ?"
"No, Babe. No." Pause. "I know what it is to be left
alone. This is no world to be alone in."
There was a long silence, and I didn't think they
would say any more. I lay on my bed, wondering if I
should get up and shut my door so I could turn on
my lamp and write. But there was a little more.
"What are we supposed to do if you die?" she
demanded, and I think she was crying. "What do we
do if they shoot you over some damn rabbits?"
"Live!" Dad said. "That's all anybody can do right
now. Live. Hold out. Survive. I don't know whether
good times are coming back again. But I know that
won't matter if we don't survive these times."
That was the end of their talk. I lay in the dark for a
long time, thinking about what they had said. Cory
was right again. Dad might get hurt. He might get
killed. I don't know how to think about that. I can
write about it, but I don't feel it. On some deep level,
I don't believe it. I guess I'm as good at denial as
anyone.
So Cory is right, but it doesn't matter. And Dad is
right, but he doesn't go far enough. God is Change,
and in the end, God prevails. But God exists to be
shaped. It isn't enough for us to just survive, limping
along, playing business as usual while things get
worse and worse. If that's the shape we give to God,
then someday we must become too weak-- too poor,
too hungry, too sick-- to defend ourselves. Then we'll
be wiped out.
There has to be more that we can do, a better
destiny that we can shape. Another place. Another
way. Something!
7
We are all Godseed, but no more or less
so than any other aspect of the universe,
Godseed is all there is-- all that
Changes. Earthseed is all that spreads
Earthlife to new earths. The universe is
Godseed. Only we are Earthseed. And the
Destiny of Earthseed is to take root among
the stars.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 2025
Sometimes naming a thing-- giving it a name or
discovering its name-- helps one to begin to
understand it. Knowing the name of a thing and
knowing what that thing is for gives me even more of
a handle on it.
The particular God-is-Change belief system that
seems right to me will be called Earthseed. I've tried
to name it before. Failing that, I've tried to leave it
unnamed. Neither effort has made me comfortable.
Name plus purpose equals focus for me.
Well, today, I found the name, found it while I was
weeding the back garden and thinking about the way
plants seed themselves, windborne, animalborne,
waterborne, far from their parent plants. They have
no ability at all to travel great distances under their
own power, and yet, they do travel. Even they don't
have to just sit in one place and wait to be wiped
out. There are islands thousands of miles from
anywhere-- the Hawaiian Islands, for example, and
Easter Island-- where plants seeded themselves and
grew long before any humans arrived.
Earthseed.
I am Earthseed. Anyone can be. Someday, I think
there will be a lot of us. And I think we'll have to
seed ourselves farther and farther from this dying
place.
I've never felt that I was making any of this up-- not
the name, Earthseed, not any of it. I mean, I've
never felt that it was anything other than real:
discovery rather than invention, exploration rather
than creation. I wish I could believe it was all
supernatural, and that I'm getting messages from
God. But then, I don't believe in that kind of God. All
I do is observe and take notes, trying to put things
down in ways that are as powerful, as simple, and as
direct as I feel them. I can never do that. I keep
trying, but I can't. I'm not good enough as a writer or
poet or whatever it is I need to be. I don't know what
to do about that. It drives me frantic sometimes. I'm
getting better, but so slowly.
The thing is, even with my writing problems, every
time I understand a little more, I wonder why it's
taken me so long-- why there was ever a time when I
didn't understand a thing so obvious and real and
true.
Here's the only puzzle in it all, the only paradox, or
bit of illogic or circular reasoning or whatever it
should be called:
Why is the universe?
To shape God.
Why is God?
To shape the universe.
I can't get rid of it. I've tried to change it or dump it,
but I can't. I cannot. It feels like the truest thing I've
ever written. It's as mysterious and as obvious as
any other explanation of God or the universe that
I've ever read, except that to me the others feel
inadequate, at best.
All the rest of Earthseed is explanation-- what God
is, what God does, what we are, what we should do,
what we can't help doing. . . . Consider: Whether
you're a human being, an insect, a microbe, or a
stone, this verse is true.
All that you touch,
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.
I'm going to go through my old journals and gather
the verses I've written into one volume. I'll put them
into one of the exercise notebooks that Cory hands
out to the older kids now that there are so few
computers in the neighborhood. I've written plenty of
useless stuff in those books, getting my high school
work out of the way. Now I'll put one to better use.
Then, someday when people are able to pay more
attention to what I say than to how old I am, I'll use
these verses to pry them loose from the rotting past,
and maybe push them into saving themselves and
building a future that makes sense.
That's if everything will just hold together for a few
more years.
SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 2025
I've finally assembled a small survival pack for
myself-- a grab-and-run pack. I've had to dig some
things I need out of the garage and the attic so that
no one complains about my taking things they need.
I've collected a hatchet, for instance, and two small,
light, all-metal pots. There's plenty of stuff like that
around because no one throws anything away that
has any possibility of someday being useful or
salable.
I packed my few hundred dollars in savings-- almost
a thousand. It might feed me for two weeks if I'm
allowed to keep it, and if I'm very careful what I buy
and where I buy it. I've kept up with prices,
questioning Dad when he and the other
neighborhood men do the essential shopping. Food
prices are insane, always going up, never down.
Everyone complains about them.
I found an old canteen and a plastic bottle both for
water, and I resolved to keep them clean and full. I
packed matches, a full change of clothing, including
shoes in case I have to get up at night and run,
comb, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, tampons,
toilet paper, bandages, pins, needles and thread,
alcohol, aspirin, a couple of spoons and forks, a can
opener, my pocket knife, packets of acorn flour,
dried fruit, roasted nuts and edible seeds, dried milk,
a little sugar and salt, my survival notes, several
plastic storage bags, large and small, a lot of
plantable raw seed, my journal, my Earthseed
notebook, and lengths of clothesline. I stowed all this
in a pair of old pillow cases, one inside the other for
strength. I rolled the pillowcases into a blanket pack
and tied it with some of the clothesline so that I
could grab it and run without losing things, but I
made it easy to open at the top so that I could get
my journal in and out, change the water to keep it
fresh, and less often, change the food and check on
the seed. The last thing I wanted to find out was that
instead of carrying plantable seed or edible food, I
had a load of bugs and worms.
I wish I could take a gun. I don't own one and Dad
won't let me keep one of his in my room. I mean to
try to grab one if trouble comes, but I may not be
able to. It would be crazy to wind up outside with
nothing but a knife and a scared look, but it could
happen. Dad and Wyatt Talcott took us out for target
practice today, and afterward I tried to talk Dad into
letting me keep one of the guns in my room.
"No," he said, sitting down, tired and dusty, behind
his desk in his cluttered office. "You don't have
anywhere to keep it safe during the day, and the
boys are always in and out of your room."
I hesitated, then told him about the emergency pack
that I had put together.
He nodded. "I thought it was a good idea back when
you first suggested it," he said. "But, think, Lauren. It
would be like a gift to a burglar. Money, food, water,
a gun. . . . Most burglars don't find what they want all
bundled up and waiting for them. I think we'd better
make it a little harder for any burglar who comes
here to get hold of a gun."
"It will just be a rolled up blanket mixed in with some
other rolled or folded bed clothes in my closet," I
said. "No one will even notice it."
"No," he shook his head. "No, the guns stay where
they are."
And that's that. I think he's more worried about the
boys snooping around than about burglars. My
brothers have been taught how to behave around
guns all their lives, but Greg is only eight and Ben is
nine. Dad just isn't ready to put temptation in their
paths yet. Marcus at 11 is more trustworthy than a
lot of adults, but Keith at almost 13 is a question
mark. He wouldn't steal from Dad. He wouldn't dare.
But he has stolen from me-- only little things so far.
He wants a gun, though, the way thirsty people want
water. He wants to be all grown up-- yesterday. So
maybe Dad's right. I hate his decision, but maybe
he's right.
"Where would you go?" I asked him, changing the
subject. "If we were forced out of here, where would
you take us?"
He blew out a breath, puffing up his cheeks for a
second. "To the neighbors or to the college," he
said. "The college has temporary emergency
accommodations for employees who are burned or
driven out of their homes."
"And then?''
"Rebuilding, fortifying, doing whatever we can do to
live and be safe."
"Would you ever think about leaving here, heading
north to where water isn't such a problem and food
is cheaper?"
"No." He stared into space. "My job down here is as
secure as a job can be. There are no jobs up there.
Newcomers work for food if they work at all.
Experience doesn't matter. Education doesn't
matter. There are just too many desperate people.
They work their lives away for a sack of beans and
they live on the streets."
"I heard it was easier up there," I said. "Oregon,
Washington, Canada."
"Closed," he said. "You've got to sneak into Oregon
if you get in at all. Even harder to sneak into
Washington. People get shot every day trying to
sneak into Canada. Nobody wants California trash."
"But people do leave. People are always moving
north."
"They try. They're desperate and they have nothing
to lose. But I do. This is my home. Beyond taxes, I
don't owe a penny on it. You and your brothers have
never known a hungry day here, and God willing,
you never will."
In my Earthseed notebook, I've written,
A tree
Cannot grow
In its parents' shadows.
Is it necessary to write things like that? Everyone
knows them. What do they mean now, anyway?
What does this one mean if you live in a cul-de-sac
with a wall around in? What does it mean if you're
damned lucky to live in a cul-de-sac with a wall
around it?
SATURDAY, JULY 19, 2025
Tomorrow, I'll be sixteen. Only sixteen. I feel older. I
want to be older. I need to be older. I hate being a
kid. Time drags!
Tracy Dunn has disappeared. She's been depressed
since Amy was killed. When she talked at all, it was
about dying and wanting to die and deserving to die.
Everyone kept hoping she would get over her grief--
or her guilt-- and get on with her life. Maybe she
couldn't. Dad talked with her several times, and I
know he was worried about her. Her crazy family
hasn't been any help. They treat her the way she
treated Amy: They ignore her.
The rumor is that she went outside sometime
yesterday. A group of Moss and Payne kids say they
saw her go out of the gate just after they left school.
No one has seen her since.
SUNDAY, JULY 20, 2025
Here's the birthday gift that came into my mind this
morning as I woke up-- just two lines:
The Destiny of Earthseed
Is to take root among the stars.
This is what I was reaching for a few days ago when
the story of the new planets being discovered caught
my attention. It's true, of course. It's obvious.
Right now, it's also impossible. The world is in
horrible shape. Even rich countries aren't doing as
well as history says rich countries used to do.
President Donner isn't the only one breaking up and
selling off science and space projects. No one is
expanding the kind of exploration that doesn't earn
an immediate profit, or at least promise big future
profits. There's no mood now for doing anything that
could be considered unnecessary or wasteful. And
yet,
The Destiny of Earthseed
Is to take root among the stars.
I don't know how it will happen or when it will
happen. There's so much to do before it can even
begin. I guess that's to be expected. There's always
a lot to do before you get to go to heaven.
8
To get along with God,
Consider the consequences of your behavior.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, JULY 26, 2025
Tracy Dunn has not come home and has not been
found by the police. I don't think she will be. She's
only been gone for a week, but a week outside must
be like a week in hell. People vanish outside. They
go through our gate like Mr. Yannis did, and
everyone waits for them, but they never come back--
or they come back in an urn. I think Tracy Dunn is
dead.
Bianca Montoya is pregnant. It isn't just gossip, it's
true, and it matters to me, somehow. Bianca is 17,
unmarried, and out of her mind about Jorge Iturbe
who lives at the Ibarra house and is Yolanda Ibarra's
brother.
Jorge admits to being the father. I don't know why
they didn't just get married before everything got so
public. Jorge is 23, and he, at least, ought to have
some sense. Anyway, they're going to get married
now. The Ibarra and Iturbe families have been
feuding with the Montoyas for a week over this. So
stupid. You'd think they had nothing else to do. At
least they're both Latino. No interracial feud this
time. Last year when Craig Dunn who's white and
one of the saner members of the Dunn family was
caught making love to Siti Moss who's black and
Richard Moss's oldest daughter to boot, I thought
someone was going to get killed. Crazy.
But my point isn't who's sleeping with whom or who's
feuding. My point is-- my question is-- how in the
world can anyone get married and make babies with
things the way they are now.
I mean, I know people have always gotten married
and had kids, but now. . . . Now there's nowhere to
go, nothing to do. A couple gets married, and if
they're lucky, they get a room or a garage to live in--
with no hope of anything better and every reason to
expect things to get worse.
Bianca's chosen life is one of my options. It's not one
that I intend to exercise, but it is pretty much what
the neighborhood expects of me-- of anyone my
age. Grow up a little more, get married, have babies.
Curtis Talcott says the new Iturbe family will get
half-a-garage to live in after they marry. Jorge's
sister Celia Iturbe Cruz and her husband and baby
have the other half. Two couples, and not one
paying job among them. The best they could hope
for would be to move into some rich people's
compound as domestic servants and work for room
and board. There's no way to save any money or
ever do any better.
And what if they wanted to go north, try for a better
life in Oregon or Washington or Canada? It would be
much harder to travel with a baby or two, and much
more dangerous to try to sneak past hostile guards
and over state lines or international boarders with
babies.
I don't know whether Bianca is brave or stupid. She
and her sister are busy altering their mother's old
wedding dress, and everyone's cooking and getting
ready for a party as though these were the good old
days. How can they?
I like Curtis Talcott a lot. Maybe I love him.
Sometimes I think I do. He says he loves me. But if
all I had to look forward to was marriage to him and
babies and poverty that just keeps getting worse, I
think I'd kill myself.
Back at home, my brother Keith slipped out of the
neighborhood-- out through the front gates and
away. He stole Cory's key and took off on his own.
Dad and I didn't know until we got home. Keith was
still gone, and by then Cory knew he must be
outside. She had checked with others in the
neighborhood and two of the Dunn kids, twins
Allison and Marie, age six, said they saw him go out
the gate. That was when Cory went home and
discovered that her key was gone.
Dad, tired and angry and scared, was going to go
right back out to look for him, but Keith got home just
as Dad was leaving. Cory, Marcus, and I had gone
to the front porch with Dad, all three of us
speculating about where Keith had gone, and
Marcus and I volunteering to go out with Dad to help
search. It was almost dark.
"You get back in that house and stay there," Dad
said. "It's bad enough to have one of you out there."
He checked the submachine gun, made sure it was
fully loaded.
"Dad, look," I said. I had spotted something moving
three houses down-- quick, shadowy movement
alongside the Garfield porch. I didn't know it was
Keith. I was attracted by its furtiveness. Someone
was sneaking around, trying to hide.
Dad was quick enough to see the movement before
it was hidden by the Garfield house. He got up at
once, took the gun, and went to check. The rest of
us watched and waited.
Moments later Cory said she heard an odd noise in
the house. I was too focused on Dad and what was
going on outside to hear what she heard, or to pay
any attention to her. She went in. Marcus and I were
still on the porch when she screamed.
Marcus and I glanced at each other, then at the front
door. Marcus lunged for the door. I yelled for Dad.
Dad was out of sight, but I heard him answer my
call.
"Come quick," I shouted, then I ran into the house.
Cory, Marcus, Bennett, and Gregory were in the
kitchen, clustered around Keith. Keith was sprawled,
panting, on the floor, wearing only his underpants.
He was scraped and bruised, bleeding, and filthy.
Cory knelt beside him, examining him, questioning
him, crying.
"What happened to you? Who did this? Why did you
go outside? Where are your clothes? What-- ?"
"Where's the key you stole?" Dad cut in. "Did they
take it from you?"
Everyone jumped, looked up at Dad, then down at
Keith.
"I couldn't help it," Keith said, still panting. "I couldn't,
Daddy. There were five guys."
"So they got the key."
Keith nodded, careful not to meet Dad's eyes.
Dad turned and strode out of the house, almost at a
run. It was too late now to get George or Brian Hsu
to change the gate lock. That would have to be done
tomorrow, and new keys made and passed out. I
thought Dad must be going out to warn people and
to put more watchers on duty. I wanted to offer to
help alert people, but I didn't. Dad looked too angry
to accept help from one of his kids right then. And
when he got back, Keith was in for it. Was he ever in
for it. A pair of pants gone, and a shirt and a pair of
shoes. Cory had never been willing to let us run
around barefoot the way a lot of kids did, except in
the house. Her definitions of being civilized did not
involve dirty, heavily callused feet any more than
they involved dirty, diseased skin. Shoes were
expensive, and we were always growing out of ours,
but Cory insisted. Each of us had at least one pair of
wearable shoes, in spite of what they cost, and they
cost a lot. Now money would have to be found to get
an extra pair for Keith.
Keith curled up on the floor, smudging the tile with
blood from his nose and mouth, hugging himself and
crying now that Dad was gone. It took Cory two or
three minutes to get him up and half carry him to the
bathroom. I tried to help her, but she stared at me
like I was the one who beat him up, so I let them
alone. It wasn't as though I wanted to help. I just
thought I should. Keith was in real pain, and it was
hard for me to endure sharing it.
I cleaned up the blood so no one would slip in it or
track it around. Then I fixed dinner, ate, fed the three
younger boys, and put the rest aside for Dad, Cory,
and Keith.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 3, 2025
Keith had to confess what he had done this morning
at church. He had to stand up in front of the whole
congregation and tell them everything, including
what the five thugs had done to him. Then he had to
apologize-- to God, to his parents, and to the
congregation that he had endangered and
inconvenienced. Dad made him do that over Cory's
objections.
Dad never hit him, though last night he must have
been tempted. "Why would you do such a thing!" he
kept demanding. "How could any son of mine be so
stupid! Where are your brains, boy? What did you
think you were doing? I'm talking to you! Answer
me!"
Keith answered and answered and answered, but
the answers never seemed to make much sense to
Dad. "I ain't no baby no more," he wept. Or, "I
wanted to show you. Just wanted to show you! You
always let Lauren do stuff!" Or, "I'm a man! I
shouldn't be hiding in the house, hiding in the wall;
I'm a man!"
It went on and on because Keith refused to admit he
had done anything wrong. He wanted to show he
was a man, not a scared girl. It wasn't his fault that a
gang of guys jumped him, beat him, robbed him. He
didn't do anything. It wasn't his fault.
Dad stared at him in utter disgust. "You disobeyed,"
he said. "You stole. You endangered the lives and
the property of everyone here, including your
mother, your sister, and your little brothers. If you
were the man you think you are, I'd beat the hell out
of you!"
Keith stared straight ahead. "Bad guys come in even
if they don't have a key," he muttered. "They come in
and steal stuff. It's not my fault!"
It took Dad two hours to get Keith to admit that it
was his fault, no excuses. He'd done wrong. He
wouldn't do it again.
My brother isn't very smart, but he makes up for it in
pure stubbornness. My father is smart and stubborn.
Keith didn't have a chance, but he made Dad work
for his victory. The next morning, Dad had his
revenge. I don't believe he thought of Keith's forced
confession that way, but Keith's expression told me
that he did.
"How do I get out of this family," Marcus muttered to
me as we watched. I sympathized. He had to share
a room with Keith, and the two of them, only a year
apart in age, fought all the time. Now things would
be worse.
Keith is Cory's favorite. If you asked her, she would
say she didn't have a favorite, but she does. She
babies him and lets him get away with skipping
chores, a little lying, a little stealing. . . . Maybe that's
why Keith thinks when he screws up, it's okay.
This morning's sermon was on the ten
commandments with extra emphasis on "Honor thy
father and thy mother," and "Thou shalt not steal." I
think Dad got rid of a lot of anger and frustration,
preaching that sermon. Keith, tall, stone-faced,
looking older than his thirteen years, kept his anger.
I could see him keeping it inside, holding it down,
choking on it.
MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 2025
Dad went out looking for Keith today. He even called
in the police. He says he doesn't know how we'll
afford the fee, but he's scared. The longer Keith is
gone, the more likely he is to get hurt or killed.
Marcus says he thinks Keith went looking for the
guys who beat him up. I don't believe it. Not even
Keith would go looking for five guys-- or even one
guy-- with nothing but a BB gun.
Cory's even more upset than Dad. She's scared and
jumpy and sick to her stomach, and she keeps
crying. I talked her into going back to bed, then
taught her classes myself. I've done that four or five
times before when she was sick, so it wasn't too
weird for the kids. I just used Cory's lesson plans,
and during the first part of the day, I partnered the
older kids with my kindergartners and let everyone
get a taste of teaching or learning from someone
different. Some of my students are my age and
older, and a couple of these-- Aura Moss and
Michael Talcott-- got up and left. They knew I
understood the work. I got the last of my high school
work and tests out of the way almost two years ago.
Since then I've done uncredited (free) college work
with Dad. Michael and Aura know all that, but they're
much too grown up to learn anything from the likes
of me. The hell with them. It's a pity, though, that my
Curtis has to have a brother like Michael-- not that
any of us gets to choose our brothers.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2025
No sign of Keith. I think Cory has gone into mourning
for him. I handled classes again today, and Dad
went out searching again. He came home looking
exhausted tonight, and Cory wept and shouted at
him.
"You didn't try!" she said with me and all three of my
brothers looking on. We'd all come to see whether
Dad had brought Keith back. "You could have found
him if you'd tried!"
Dad tried to go to her, but she backed away, still
shouting: "If it were your precious Lauren out there
alone, you would have found her by now! You don't
care about Keith."
She's never said anything like that before.
I mean, we were always Cory and Lauren. She
never asked me to call her "mother," and I never
thought to do it. I always knew she was my
stepmother. But still. . . I always loved her. It
mystified me that Keith was her favorite, but it didn't
make me love her any less. I was her kid, but not her
kid. Not quite. Not really. But I always thought she
loved me.
Dad shooed us all off to bed. He quieted Cory and
took her back to their room. A few minutes ago, he
came to see me.
"She didn't mean it," he said. "She loves you as
though you were her daughter, Lauren."
I just looked at him.
"She wants you to know she's sorry."
I nodded, and after a few more assurances, he went.
Is she sorry? I don't think so.
Did she mean it. She did. Oh, yes, she meant it.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 30, 2025
Keith came back last night.
He just walked into the house during dinner, as
though he'd been outside playing football instead of
gone since Saturday. And this time he looked fine.
Not a mark on him. He was wearing a clean new set
of clothing-- even new shoes. All of it was of much
better quality than he had when he left, and much
more expensive than we could have afforded.
He still had the BB gun until Dad took it away from
him and smashed it.
Keith wouldn't say where he'd been or how he'd
gotten the new things, so Dad beat him bloody.
I've only seen Dad like that once before-- when I
was 12. Cory tried to stop him, tried to pull him off
Keith, screamed at him in English, then in Spanish,
then without words.
Gregory threw up on the floor, and Bennett started
to cry. Marcus backed away from the whole scene,
and slipped out of the house.
Then it was over.
Keith was crying like a two-year-old and Cory was
holding him. Dad stood over both of them, looking
dazed.
I followed Marcus out the back door and stumbled
and almost fell down the back steps. I didn't know
what I was doing. Marcus wasn't around. I sat on the
steps in the warm darkness and let my body shake
and hurt and vomit in helpless empathy with Keith.
Then I guess I passed out.
I came to sometime later with Marcus shaking me
and whispering my name.
I got up with Marcus hanging on to my arm, trying to
steady me, and I got to my bedroom.
"Let me sleep in here," he whispered once I was
sitting on my bed, dazed and still in pain. "I'll sleep
on the floor, I don't care."
"All right," I said, not caring where he slept. I lay
down on the bed without taking off even my shoes,
and drew my body into a fetal ball on top of the
bedclothes. I either fell asleep that way or I passed
out again.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2025
Keith came home tonight while Dad was visiting over
at the Talcott house. I suspect that Keith hung
around and watched the house and waited until Dad
left. He had come to see Cory. He brought her a lot
of money done up in a fat roll.
She stared at it, then took it, dazed. "So much,
Keith," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"
"It's for you," he said. "All for you, not him."
He took her hand and closed it around the money--
and she let him do it, though she had to know it must
be stolen money or drug money or worse.
Keith gave Bennett and Gregory big, expensive bars
of milk chocolate with peanuts. He just smiled at
Marcus and me-- an obvious "fuck you" smile. Then,
before Dad could come home and find him here, he
left again. Cory hadn't realized that he was leaving
again, and she all but screamed and clung to him.
"No! You'll be killed out there! What's the matter with
you? Stay home!"
"Mama, I won't let him beat me again," he said. "I
don't need him hitting me and telling me what to do.
Pretty soon, I'll be able to make more money in a
day than he can in a week-- maybe in a month.
"You'll be killed!"
"No I won't. I know what I'm doing." He kissed her,
then, with surprising ease, took her arms from
around him. "I'll come back and see you," he said.
"I'll bring you presents.
And he vanished out the back door, and was gone.
2026
Civilization is to groups what
intelligence is to individuals. It is a
means of combining the
intelligence of many to achieve
ongoing group adaptation.
Civilization, like intelligence may
serve well, serve adequately, or
fail to serve its adaptive function.
When civilization fails to serve, it
must disintegrate unless it is acted
upon by unifying internal or
external forces.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
by Lauren Oya Olamina
10
When apparent stability disintegrates,
As it mustÑ
God is ChangeÑ
People tend to give in
To fear and depression,
To need and greed.
When no influence is strong enough
To unify people
They divide.
They struggle,
One against one,
Group against group,
For survival, position, power.
They remember old hates and generate new ones,
They create chaos and nurture it.
They kill and kill and kill,
Until they are exhausted and destroyed,
Until they are conquered by outside forces,
Or until one of them becomes
A leader
Most will follow,
Or a tyrant
Most fear.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
THURSDAY, JUNE 25, 2026
Keith came home yesterday, bigger than ever, as tall
and lean as Dad is tall and broad. He's not quite 14,
but he already looks like the man he wants so much
to be. We're like that, we Olaminas-- tall, sturdy, fast
growing people. Except for Gregory who is only nine,
we all tower over Cory. I'm still the tallest, but my
height seems to annoy her these days. She loves
Keith's size, though-- her big son. She just hates the
fact that he doesn't live with us anymore.
"I got a room," he said to me yesterday. We talked,
he and I. Cory was with Dorotea Cruz who is one of
her best friends and who has just had another baby.
The other boys were playing in the street and on the
island. Dad had gone to the college, and would be
gone overnight. Now, more than ever, it's safest to
go out just at dawn, and not to try coming home until
just at dawn the next morning. That's if you have to
go outside at all, which Dad does about once a
week. The worst parasites still prowl at night and
sleep late into the morning. Yet Keith lives outside.
"I got a room in a building with some other people,"
he said. Translation: He and his friends were
squatting in an abandoned building. Who were his
friends? A gang? A flock of prostitutes? A bunch of
astronauts, flying high on drugs? A den of thieves?
All of the above? Whenever he came to see us he
brought money to Cory and little gifts to Bennett and
Gregory.
How could he get money? There's no honest way.
"Do your friends know how old you are?" I asked.
He grinned. "Hell, no. Why should I tell them that?"
I nodded. "It does help to look older sometimes.
"You want something to eat?"
"You going to cook for me?"
"I've cooked for you hundreds of times. Thousands."
"I know. But you always had to before."
"Don't be stupid. You think I couldn't act the way you
did: Skip out on my responsibilities if I felt like it? I
don't feel like it. You want to eat or not?"
"Sure."
I made rabbit stew and acorn bread-- enough for
Cory and all the boys when they came in. He hung
around and watched me work for a while, then
began to talk to me. He's never done that before.
We've never, never liked each other, he and I. But
he had information I wanted, and he seemed to want
to talk. I must have been the safest person he could
talk to. He wasn't afraid of shocking me. He didn't
much care what I thought. And he wasn't afraid I'd
tell Dad or Cory anything he said. Of course, I
wouldn't. Why cause them pain? I've never been
much for tattling on people, anyway.
"It's just a nasty old building on the outside," he was
saying of his new home. "You wouldn't believe how
great it looks once you go in, though."
"Whorehouse or spaceship?" I asked.
"It's got stuff like you never saw," he evaded. "TV
windows you go through instead of just sitting and
looking at. Headsets, belts, and touchrings. . .you
see and feel everything, do anything. Anything!
There's places and things you can get into with that
equipment that are in-sane! You don't ever have to
go into the street except to get food."
"And whoever owns this stuff took you in?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He looked at me for a long time, then started to
laugh. "Because I can read and write," he said at
last. "And none of them can. They're all older than
me, but not one of them can read or write anything.
They stole all this great stuff and they couldn't even
use it. Before I got there they even broke some of it
because they couldn't read the instructions."
Cory and I had had a hell of a struggle, teaching him
to read and write. He had been bored, impatient,
anything but eager.
"So you read for a living-- help your new friends
learn to use their stolen equipment," I said.
"Yeah."
"And what else?"
"Nothin' else."
What a piss-poor liar he is. Always was. He's got no
conscience. He just isn't smart enough to tell
convincing lies. "Drugs, Keith?" I asked.
"Prostitution? Robbery?"
"I said nothing else! You always think you know
everything."
I sighed. "You're not done causing Dad and Cory
pain, are you? Not by a long shot."
He looked as though he wanted to shout back at me
or hit me. He might have done one or the other if I
hadn't mentioned Cory.
"I don't give a shit about him," he said, his voice low
and ugly. He had a man's voice already. He had
everything but a man's brain. "I do more for her than
he does. I bring her money and nice things. And my
friends. . . my friends know she lives here, and they
let this place alone. He's nothing!"
I turned and looked at him and saw my father's face,
lighter-skinned, younger, thinner, but my father's
face, unmistakable. "He's you," I whispered. "Every
time I look at you, I see him. Every time you look at
him, you see yourself.
"Dogshit!"
I shrugged.
It was a long time before he spoke again. At last he
said, "Did he ever hit you?"
"Not for about five years."
"Why'd he hit you-- back then?"
I thought about that, and decided to tell him. He was
old enough. "He caught me and Rubin Quintanilla in
the bushes together."
Keith shouted with abrupt laughter. "You and Rubin?
Really? You were doing it with him? You're kidding."
"We were twelve. What the hell."
"You're lucky you didn't get pregnant."
"I know. Twelve can be a dumb age."
He looked away. "Bet he didn't beat you as bad as
he beat me!"
"He sent you boys over to play with the Talcotts." I
gave him a glass of cold orange juice and poured
one for myself.
"I don't remember," he said.
"You were nine," I said. "Nobody was going to tell
you what was going on. As I remember, I told you I
fell down the back steps."
He frowned, perhaps remembering. My face had
been memorable. Dad hadn't beaten me as badly as
he beat Keith, but I looked worse. He should
remember that.
"He ever beat up Mama?"
I shook my head. "No. I've never seen any sign of it.
I don't think he would. He loves her, you know. He
really does."
"Bastard!"
"He's our father, and he's the best man I know."
"Did you think that when he beat you?"
"No. But later when I figured out how stupid I'd been,
I was just glad he was so strict. And back when it
happened, I was just glad he didn't quite kill me."
He laughed again-- twice in just a few minutes, and
both times at things I'd said. Maybe he was ready to
open up a little now.
"Tell me about the outside," I said. "How do you live
out there?
He drained the last of his second glass of juice. "I
told you. I live real good out there."
"But how did you live when you first went out-- when
you went to stay."
He looked at me and smiled. He smiled like that
years ago when he used red ink to trick me into
bleeding in empathy with a wound he didn't have. I
remember that particular nasty smile.
"You want to go out yourself, don't you?" he
demanded.
"Someday."
"What, instead of marrying Curtis and having a
bunch of babies?"
"Yeah. Instead of that."
"I wondered why you were being so nice to me."
The food smelled just about ready, so I got up and
took the bread from the oven and bowls from the
cupboard. I was tempted to tell him to dish up his
own stew, but I knew he would spoon all the meat
out of the stew and leave nothing but potatoes and
vegetables for the rest of us. So I served him and
myself, covered the pot, left it on the lowest possible
fire, and put a towel over the bread.
I let him eat in peace for a while, though I thought
the boys would be coming in any time now, starving.
Then I was afraid to wait any longer. "Talk to me,
Keith," I said. "I really want to know. How did you
survive when you first went out there."
His smile this time was less evil. Maybe the food had
mellowed him. "Slept in a cardboard box for three
days and stole food," he said "I don't know why I
kept going back to that box. Could have slept in any
old corner. Some kids carry a piece of cardboard to
sleep on-- so they won't be right down on the
ground, you know.
"Then I got a sleepsack from an old man. It was
new, like he never used it. Then I-- "
"You stole it?"
He gave me a look of scorn. "What you think I was
going to do? I didn't have no money. Just had that
gun-- Mama's 38."
Yes. He had brought it back to her three visits ago,
along with two boxes of ammunition. Of course he
never said how he got the ammunition-- or how he
got his replacement gun-- a Heckler & Koch nine
millimeter just like Dad's. He just showed up with
things and claimed that if you had the money, you
could buy anything outside. He had never admitted
how he got the money.
"Okay," I said. "So you stole a sleepsack. And you
kept stealing food? It's a wonder you didn't get
caught."
"The old guy had some money. I used it to buy food.
Then I started walking toward L.A."
That old dream of his. For reasons that make sense
to him alone, he's always wanted to go to L.A. Any
sane person would be thankful for the twenty miles
that separate us from that oozing sore.
"He talked to you. He was friendly to you. And you
shot him."
"What was I supposed to do? Wait for God to come
and give me some money? What was I supposed to
do?"
"Come home."
"Shit."
"Doesn't it even bother you that you took someone's
life-- you killed a man?"
He seemed to think about that for a while. Then he
shook his head. "It don't bother me," he said. "I was
scared at first, but then. . .after I did it, I didn't feel
nothing. Nobody saw me do it. I just took his stuff
and left him there. Besides, maybe he wasn't dead.
People don't always die just because you shoot
them."
"You didn't check?"
"I just wanted his stuff. He was crazy anyway.
Alaska!"
I didn't say any more to him, didn't ask any more
questions. He talked a little about meeting some
guys and joining up with them, then discovering that
even though they were all older than he was, none
of them could read or write. He was a help to them.
He made their lives pleasanter. Maybe that's why
they didn't just wait until he was asleep and kill him
and take his loot for themselves.
After a while, he noticed that I wasn't saying
anything, and he laughed. "You better marry Curtis
and make babies," he said. "Out there, outside, you
wouldn't last a day. That hyperempathy shit of yours
would bring you down even if nobody touched you."
"You think that," I said.
"Hey, I saw a guy get both of his eyes gouged out.
After that, they set him on fire and watched him run
around and scream and burn. You think you could
stand to see that?"
"Your new friends did that?" I asked.
MONDAY, JULY 20, 2026
Keith came to see me today just before dark. He
found me walking home from the Talcott house
where Curtis had been wishing me a very happy
birthday. We've been very careful, Curtis and I, but
from somewhere or other, he's gotten a supply of
condoms. They're old fashioned, but they work. And
there's an unused darkroom in a corner of the
Talcott garage.
Keith scared me out of a very sweet mood. He came
from behind two houses without making a sound. He
had almost reached me before I realized someone
was there and turned to face him.
He raised his hands, smiling. "Brought you a
birthday present," he said. He put something into my
left hand. Money.
"Keith, no, give it to Cory."
"You give it to her. You want her to have it, you give
it to her. I gave it to you."
I walked him to the gate, concerned that one of the
watchers might spot him and shoot him. He was that
much taller than he had been when he stopped
living with us. Dad was home so he wouldn't come
in. I thanked him for the money and told him I would
give it to Cory. I wanted him to know that because I
didn't want him to bring me anything else, ever.
He seemed not to mind. He kissed the side of my
face said, "Happy birthday," and went out. He still
had Cory's key, and although Dad knew he had it,
he hadn't had the lock changed again.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 26, 2026
Today, my parents had to go downtown to identify
the body of my brother Keith.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 29, 2026
I haven't been able to write a word since
Wednesday. I don't know what to write. The body
was Keith's. I never saw it, of course. Dad said he
tried to keep Cory from seeing it. The things
someone had done to Keith before he died. . . .I
don't want to write about this, but I need to.
Sometimes writing about a thing makes it easier to
stand.
Someone had cut and burned away most of my
brother's skin. Everywhere except his face. They
burned out his eyes, but left the rest of his face
intact-- like they wanted him to be recognized. They
cut and they cauterized and they cut and they
cauterized. . . . Some of the wounds were days old.
Someone had an endless hatred of my brother.
Dad got us all together and described to us what
had been done. He told it in a flat, dead monotone.
He wanted to scare us, to scare Marcus, Bennett,
and Gregory in particular. He wanted us to
understand just how dangerous the outside is.
The police said drug dealers torture people the way
Keith was tortured. They torture people who steal
from them and people who compete with them. We
don't know whether Keith was doing either of these
things. We just know he's dead. His body was
dumped across town from here in front of a burned
out old building that was once a nursing home. It
was dumped on the broken concrete and
abandoned several hours after Keith died. It could
have been dumped in one of the canyons and only
the dogs would have found it. But someone wanted
it to be found, wanted it to be recognized. Had one
of his victims' relatives or friends managed to get
even at last?
The police seemed to think we should know who
killed him. I got the feeling from their questions that
they would have been happy to arrest Dad or Cory
or both of them. But they both lead very public lives,
and neither had any unexplained absences or other
breaks in routine. Dozens of people could give them
alibis. Of course, I said nothing about what Keith had
told me he had been doing. What good would that
do? He was dead, and in a horrible way. By accident
or by intent, all his victIms were avenged.
Wardell Parrish felt called upon to tell the police
about the big fight Dad and Keith had had last year.
He'd heard it, of course. Half the neighborhood had
heard it. Family fights are neighborhood theater--
and Dad, the minister, after all!
I know Wardell Parrish was the one who told the
cops. His youngest niece Tanya let that much slip.
"Uncle Ward said he hated to mention it but. . . ."
Oh, I'll bet he hated to mention it. Damned bastard!
But nobody backed him up. The cops went nosing
around the neighborhood, but no one else admitted
knowing anything about a fight. After all, they knew
Dad didn't kill Keith. And they knew the cops liked to
solve cases by "discovering" evidence against
whomever they decided must be guilty. Best to give
them nothing. They never helped when people
called for help. They came later, and more often
than not, made a bad situation worse.
We had the service today. Dad asked his friend
Reverend Robinson to take care of it. Dad just sat
with Cory and the rest of us and looked bent and
old. So old.
Cory cried all day, most of the time without making a
sound. She's been crying off and on since
Wednesday. Marcus and Dad tried to comfort her.
Even I tried, though the way she looked at me. . .as
though I had had something to do with Keith's death,
as though she almost hated me. I keep reaching out
to her. I don't know what else to do. Maybe in time,
she'll be able to forgive me for not being her
daughter, for being alive when her son is dead, for
being Dad's daughter by someone else. . . ? I don't
know.
Dad never shed a tear. I've never seen him cry in my
life. Today, I wish he would. I wish he could.
Curtis Talcott sort of hung around with me today,
and we talked and talked. I guess I needed to talk,
and Curtis was willing to put up with me.
11
Any Change may bear seeds of benefit.
Seek them out.
Any Change may bear seeds of harm.
Beware.
God is infinitely malleable.
God is Change.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2026
We are coming apart.
The community, the families, individual family
members. . . .We're a rope, breaking, a single strand
at a time.
There was another robbery last night-- or an
attempted robbery. I wish that was all. No garden
theft this time. Three guys came over the wall and
crowbarred their way into the Cruz house. The Cruz
family, of course, has loud burglar alarms, barred
windows, and security gates at all the doors just like
the rest of us, but that doesn't seem to matter. When
people want to come in, they come in. The thieves
used simple hand tools-- crowbars, hydraulic jacks,
things anyone can get. I don't know how they
disabled the burglar alarm. I know they cut the
electrical and phone lines to the house. That
shouldn't have mattered since the alarm had
back-up batteries. Whatever else they did, or
whatever went wrong, the alarm didn't go off. And
after the thieves used the crowbar on the door, they
walked into the kitchen and used it on Dorotea
Cruz's seventy-five-year-old grandmother. The old
lady was a light sleeper and had gotten into the habit
of getting up at night and brewing herself a cup of
lemon grass tea. Her family says that's what she
was coming into the kitchen to do when the thieves
broke in.
Then Dorotea's brothers Hector and Rubin
Quintanilla, came running, guns in hand. They had
the bedroom nearest to the kitchen and they heard
all the noise-- the break-in itself and Mrs. Quintanilla
being knocked against the kitchen table and chairs.
They killed two of the thieves. The third got away,
perhaps wounded. There was a lot of blood. But old
Mrs. Quintanilla was dead.
This is the seventh incident since Keith was killed.
More and more people are coming over our wall to
take what we have, or what they think we have.
Seven intrusions into house or garden in less than
two months-- in an 11-household community. If this
is what's happening to us, what must it be like for
people who are really rich-- although perhaps with
their big guns, private armies of security guards, and
up to date security equipment, they're better able to
fight back. Maybe that's why we're getting so much
attention. We have a few stealables and we're not
that well protected. Of the seven intrusions, three
were successful. Thieves got in and out with
something-- a couple of radios, a sack of walnuts,
wheat flour, corn meal, pieces of jewelry, an ancient
TV, a computer. . . . If they could carry it, they made
off with it. If what Keith told me is true, we're getting
the poorer class of thieves here. No doubt the
tougher, smarter, more courageous thieves hit
stores and businesses. But our lower-class thugs
are killing us slowly.
Next year, I'll be 18-- old enough, according to Dad,
to stand a regular night watch. I wish I could do it
now. As soon as I can do it, I will. But it won't be
enough.
It's funny. Cory and Dad have been using some of
the money Keith brought us to help the people
who've been robbed. Stolen money to help victims of
theft. Half the money is hidden in our back yard in
case of disaster. There has always been some
money hidden out there. Now there's enough to
make a difference. The other half has gone into the
church fund to help our neighbors in emergencies. It
won't be enough.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2026
Something new is beginning-- or perhaps something
old and nasty is reviving. A company called
Kagimoto, Stamm, Frampton, and Company-- KSF--
has taken over the running of a small coastal city
called Olivar. Olivar, incorporated in the 1980s, is
just one more beach/bedroom suburb of Los
Angeles, small and well-to-do. It has little industry,
much hilly, vacant land and a short, crumbling
coastline. Its people, like some here in our Robledo
neighborhood, earn salaries that would once have
made them prosperous and comfortable. In fact,
Olivar is a lot richer than we are, but since it's a
coastal city, its taxes are higher, and since some of
its land is unstable, it has extra problems. Parts of it
sometimes crumble into the ocean, undercut or
deeply saturated by salt water. Sea level keeps
rising with the warming climate and there is the
occasional earthquake. Olivar's flat, sandy beach is
already just a memory. So are the houses and
businesses that used to sit on that beach. Like
coastal cities all over the world, Olivar needs special
help. It's an upper middle class, white, literate
community of people who once had a lot of weight to
throw around. Now, not even the politicians it's
helped to elect will stand by it. The whole state, the
country, the world needs help, it's been told. What
the hell is tiny Olivar whining about?
Somewhat richer and less geologically active
communities are getting help-- dikes, sea walls,
evacuation assistance, whatever's appropriate.
Olivar, located between the sea and Los Angeles, is
getting an influx of salt water from one direction and
desperate poor people from the other. It has a solar
powered desalination plant on some of its flatter,
more stable land, and that provides its people with a
dependable supply of water.
But it can't protect itself from the encroaching sea,
the crumbling earth, the crumbling economy, or the
desperate refugees. Even getting back and forth to
work, for those few who can't work at home, was
becoming as dangerous for them as it is for our
people-- a kind of terrible gauntlet that has to be run
over and over again.
Then the people of KSF showed up. After many
promises, much haggling, suspicion, fear, hope, and
legal wrangling, the voters and the officials of Olivar
permitted their town to be taken over, bought out,
privatized. KSF will expand the desalination plant to
vast size. That plant will be the first of many. The
company intends to dominate farming and the selling
of water and solar and wind energy over much of the
southwest-- where for pennies it's already bought
vast tracts of fertile, waterless land. So far, Olivar is
one of its smaller coastal holdings, but with Olivar, it
gets an eager, educated work force, people a few
years older than I am whose options are very limited.
Not as limited as ours, of course, but limited. And
there's all that formerly public land that they now
control. They mean to own great water, power, and
agricultural industries in an area that most people
have given up on. They have long-term plans, and
the people of Olivar have decided to become part of
them-- to accept smaller salaries than their
socio-economic group is used to in exchange for
security, a guaranteed food supply, jobs, and help in
their battle with the Pacific.
There are still people in Olivar who are
uncomfortable with the change. They know about
early American company towns in which the
companies cheated and abused people.
But this is to be different. The people of Olivar aren't
frightened, impoverished victims. They're able to
look after themselves, their rights and their property.
They're educated people who don't want to live in
the spreading chaos of the rest of Los Angeles
County. Some of them said so on the radio
documentary we all listened to last night-- as they
made a public spectacle of selling themselves to
KSF.
"Good luck to them," Dad said. "Not that they'll have
much luck in the long run."
"What do you mean?" Cory demanded. "I think the
whole idea is wonderful. It's what we need. Now if
only some big company would want to do the same
thing with Robledo.
"No," Dad said. "Thank God, no."
"You don't know! Why shouldn't they?"
"Robledo's too big, too poor, too black, and too
Hispanic to be of interest to anyone-- and it has no
coastline. What it does have is street poor, body
dumps, and a memory of once being well-off-- of
shade trees, big houses, hills, and canyons. Most of
those things are still here, but no company will want
us."
At the end of the program it was announced that
KSF was looking for registered nurses, credentialed
teachers, and a few other skilled professionals who
would be willing to move to Olivar and work for room
and board. The offer wasn't put that way, of course,
but that's what it meant. Yet Cory recorded the
phone number and called it at once. She and Dad
are both teachers, both Ph.D's. She was desperate
to get in ahead of the crowd. Dad just shrugged and
let her call.
She made a sharp, wordless sound of disgust. "You
know nothing about the world. You think you have all
the answers but you know nothing!"
I didn't argue. There wasn't much point in my
arguing with her.
"I doubt that Olivar is looking for families of blacks
and Hispanics, anyway," Dad said. "The Balters or
the Garfields or even some of the Dunns might get
in, but I don't think we would. Even if I were trusting
enough to put my family into KSF's hands, they
wouldn't have us."
"We could try it," Cory insisted. "We should! We
wouldn't be any worse off than we are now if they
turn us down. And if we got in and we didn't like it,
we could come back here. We could rent the house
to one of the big families here-- charge them just a
little, then-- "
"Then come back here jobless and penniless," Dad
said. "No. I mean it. This business sounds half
antebellum revival and half science fiction. I don't
trust it. Freedom is dangerous, Cory, but it's
precious, too. You can't just throw it away or let it
slip away. You can't sell it for bread and pottage."
Cory stared at him-- just stared. He refused to look
away. Cory got up and went to their bedroom. I saw
her there a few minutes later, sitting on the bed,
cradling the urn of Keith's ashes, and crying.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2026
Marcus tells me the Garfields are trying to get into
Olivar. He's been spending a lot of time with Robin
Balter and she told him. She hates the idea because
she likes her cousin Joanne a lot better than she
does her two sisters. She's afraid that if Joanne
goes away to Olivar, she'll never see her again. I
suspect she's right.
I can't imagine this place without the Garfields.
Joanne, Jay, Phillida. . . . We've lost individuals
before, of course, but we've never lost a whole
family. I mean. . . they'll be alive, but. . .they'll be
gone.
I hope they're refused. I know it's selfish, but I don't
care. Not that it makes any difference what I hope.
Oh hell. I hope they get whatever will be best for
their survival. I hope they'll be all right.
At 13, my brother Marcus has become the only
person in the family whom I would call beautiful.
Girls his age stare at him when they think he's not
looking. They giggle a lot around him and chase him
like crazy, but he sticks to Robin. She's not pretty at
all-- all skin and bones and brains-- but she's funny
and sensible. In a year or two, she'll start to fill out
and my brother will get beauty along with all those
brains. Then, if the two of them are still together,
their lives will get a lot more interesting.
I've changed my mind. I used to wait for the
explosion, the big crash, the sudden chaos that
would destroy the neighborhood. Instead, things are
unraveling, disintegrating bit by bit. Susan Talcott
Bruce and her husband have applied to Olivar.
Other people are talking about applying, thinking
about it. There's a small college in Olivar. There are
lethal security devices to keep thugs and the street
poor out. There are more jobs opening up. . . .
Maybe Olivar is the future-- one face of it. Cities
controlled by big companies are old hat in science
fiction. My grandmother left a whole bookcase of old
science fiction novels. The company-city subgenre
always seemed to star a hero who outsmarted,
overthrew, or escaped "the company." I've never
seen one where the hero fought like hell to get taken
in and underpaid by the company. In real life, that's
the way it will be. That's the way it is.
And what should I be doing? What can I do? In less
than a year, I'll be 18, an adult-- an adult with no
prospects except life in our disintegrating
neighborhood. Or Earthseed.
To begin Earthseed, I'll have to go outside. I've
known that for a long time, but the idea scares me
just as much as it always has.
Next year when I'm 18, I'll go. That means now I
have to begin to plan how I'll handle it.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2026
I'm going to go north. My grandparents once
traveled a lot by car. They left us old road maps of
just about every county in the state plus several of
other parts of the country. The newest of them is 40
years old, but that doesn't matter. The roads will still
be there. They'll just be in worse shape than they
were back when my grandparents drove a
gas-fueled car over them. I've put maps of the
California counties north of us and the few I could
find of Washington and Oregon counties into my
pack.
I wonder if there are people outside who will pay me
to teach them reading and writing-- basic stuff-- or
people who will pay me to read or write for them.
Keith started me thinking about that. I might even be
able to teach some Earthseed verses along with the
reading and writing. Given any chance at all,
teaching is what I would choose to do. Even if I have
to take other kinds of work to get enough to eat, I
can teach. If I do it well, it will draw people to me-- to
Earthseed.
All successful life is
Adaptable,
Opportunistic,
Tenacious,
Interconnected, and
Fecund.
Understand this.
Use it.
Shape God.
I wrote that verse a few months ago. It's true like all
the verses. It seems more true than ever now, more
useful to me when I'm afraid.
I've finally got a title for my book of Earthseed
verses-- Earthseed: The Book of the Living. There
are the Tibetan and the Egyptian Books of the Dead.
Dad has copies of them. I've never heard of anything
called a book of the living, but I wouldn't be
surprised to discover that there is something. I don't
care. I'm trying to speak-- to write-- the truth. I'm
trying to be clear. I'm not interested in being fancy,
or even original. Clarity and truth will be plenty, if I
can only achieve them. If it happens that there are
other people outside somewhere preaching my truth,
I'll join them. Otherwise, I'll adapt where I must, take
what opportunities I can find or make, hang on,
gather students, and teach.
12
We are Earthseed
The life that perceives itself
Changing.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2026
The Garfields have been accepted at Olivar.
They'll be moving next month. That soon. I've known
them all my life, and they'll be gone. Joanne and I
have had our differences, but we grew up together. I
thought somehow that when I left, she would still be
here. Everyone would still be here, frozen in time
just as I left them. But no, that's fantasy. God is
Change.
"Do you want to go?" I asked her this morning. We
had gotten together to pick a few early lemons and
navel oranges and some persimmons, almost ripe
and brilliant orange. We picked at my house, and
then at hers, enjoying the work. The weather was
cool. It was good to be outside.
"I have to go," she said. "What else is there for me--
for anyone. It's all going to hell here. You know it is."
I stared at her. I guess discussing such things is all
right now that she has a way out. "So you move into
another fortress," I said.
"It's a better fortress. It won't have people coming
over the walls, killing old ladies."
"Your mother says all you'll have is an apartment.
No yard. No garden. You'll have less money, but
you'll have to use more of it to buy food."
"We'll manage!" There was a brittle quality to her
voice.
I put down the old rake I was using as a fruit picker.
It worked fine on the lemons and oranges. "Scared?"
I asked.
She put down her own real fruit picker with its
awkward extension handle and small fruit-catching
basket. It was best for persimmons. She hugged
herself. "I've lived here, lived with trees and gardens
all my life. I. . . don't know how it will be to be shut
up in an apartment. It does scare me, but we'll
manage. We'll have to."
"You can come back here if things aren't what you
hope. Your grandparents and your aunt's family will
still be here.
"Harry will still be here," she whispered, looking
toward her house. I would have to stop thinking of it
as the Garfield house. Harry and Joanne were at
least as close as Curtis and I. I hadn't thought about
her leaving him-- what that must be like. I like Harry
Balter. I remember being surprised when he and
Joanne first started going together. They'd lived in
the same house all their lives. I had thought of Harry
almost as her brother. But they were only first
cousins, and against the odds, they had managed to
fall in love. Or I thought they had. They hadn't gone
with anyone else for years. Everyone assumed they
would get around to marrying when they were a little
older.
"Marry him and take him with you," I said.
"He won't go," she said in that same whisper. "We've
talked and talked about it. He wants me to stay here
with him, get married soon and go north. Just. . .go
with no prospects. Nothing. It's crazy."
"Why won't he go to Olivar?"
"He thinks the way your father does. He thinks
Olivar's a trap. He's read about nineteenth and early
twentieth century company towns, and he says no
matter how great Olivar looks, all we'll get from it in
the end is debt and loss of freedom."
I knew Harry had sense. "Jo," I said, "you'll be of age
next year. You could stay here with the Balters until
then and marry. Or you could talk your father into
letting you marry now."
"And then what? Go join the street poor? Stay and
stuff more babies into that crowded house. Harry
doesn't have a job, and there's no real chance of his
getting one that pays money. Are we supposed to
live on what Harry's parents earn? What kind of
future is that? None! None at all!"
Sensible. Conservative and sensible and mature and
wrong. Very much in character for Joanne.
Or maybe I was the one who was wrong. Maybe the
security Joanne will find in Olivar is the only kind of
security to be had for anyone who isn't rich. To me,
though, security in Olivar isn't much more attractive
than the security Keith has finally found in his urn.
I picked a few more lemons and some oranges and
wondered what she would do if she knew I was also
planning to leave next year. Would she run to her
mother again, frightened for me, and eager to have
someone protect me from myself? She might. She
wants a future she can understand and depend on--
a future that looks a lot like her parents' present. I
don't think that's possible. Things are changing too
much, too fast. Who can fight God?
We put baskets of fruit inside my back door on the
porch, then headed for her house.
"What will you do?" she asked me as we walked.
"Are you just going to stay here? I mean. . .are you
going to stay and marry Curtis?"
I shrugged and lied. "I don't know. If I marry anyone,
it will be Curtis. But I don't know about marrying. I
don't want to have children here any more than you
do. I know we'll be staying here for a while longer,
though. Dad won't let Cory even apply to Olivar. I'm
glad of that because I don't want to go there. But
there'll be other Olivars. Who knows what I might
wind up doing?" That last didn't feel like a lie.
"You think there'll be more privatized cities?" she
asked.
"Bound to be if Olivar succeeds. This country is
going to be parceled out as a source of cheap labor
and cheap land. When people like those in Olivar
beg to sell themselves, our surviving cities are
bound to wind up the economic colonies of whoever
can afford to buy them."
"Oh, God, there you go again. You've always got a
disaster up your sleeve."
"I see what's out there. You see it too. You just deny
it."
"Remember when you thought starving hordes were
going to come crawling over our walls and we would
have to run away to the mountains and eat grass?"
Did I remember? I turned to face her, first angry--
furious-- then to my own surprise, sad. "I'll miss
you," I said.
She must have read my feelings. "I'm sorry," she
whispered.
We hugged each other. I didn't ask her what she
was sorry for, and she didn't say any more.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2026
Dad didn't come home today. He was due this
morning.
I don't know what that means. I don't know what to
think. I'm scared to death.
Cory called the college, his friends, fellow ministers,
co-workers, the cops, the hospitals. . . .
Nothing. He isn't under arrest or sick or injured or
dead-- at least not as far as anyone knows. None of
his friends or colleagues had seen him since he left
work early this morning. His bike was working all
right. He was all right.
He had ridden off toward home with three
co-workers who lived in other neighborhoods in our
area. Each of these said the same thing: That they
had left him as usual at River Street where it
intersects Durant Road. That's only five blocks from
here. We're at the tip-end of Durant Road.
So where is he?
Today a group of us, all armed, rode bicycles from
home to River Street and down River Street to the
college. Five miles in all. We checked side streets,
alleys, vacant buildings, every place we could think
of. I went. I took Marcus with me because if I hadn't,
he would have gone out alone. I had the Smith &
Wesson. Marcus had only his knife. He's quick and
agile with it, and strong for his age, but he's never
used it on anything alive. If anything had happened
to him, I don't think I would have dared to go home.
Cory is already out of her mind with worry. All this on
top of losing Keith. . . . I don't know. Everyone
helped. Jay Garfield will be leaving soon, but that
didn't stop him from leading the search. He's a good
man. He did everything he could think of to find Dad.
Tomorrow we're going into the hills and canyons.
We have to. No one wants to, but what else can we
do?
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18,
2026
I've never seen more squalor, more human remains,
more feral dogs than I saw today. I have to write. I
have to dump this onto paper. I can't keep it inside of
me. Seeing the dead has never bothered me before,
but this. . . .
We were looking for Dad's body, of course, though
no one said so. I couldn't deny that reality or avoid
thinking about it. Cory checked with the police again,
with the hospitals, with everyone we could think of
who knew Dad.
Nothing.
So we had to go to the hills. When we go for target
practice, we don't look around, except to insure
safety. We don't look for what we'd rather not find.
Today in groups of three or four, we combed through
the area nearest to the top of River Street. I kept
Marcus with me-- which was not easy. What is it in
young boys that makes them want to wander off
alone and get killed? They get two chin hairs and
they're trying to prove they're men.
"You watch my back and I'll watch yours," I said. "I'm
not going to let you get hurt. Don't you let me down."
He gave me the kind of near-smile that said he knew
exactly what I was trying to do, and that he was
going to do as he pleased. I got mad and grabbed
him by the shoulders.
"Damnit, Marcus, how many sisters have you got?
How many fathers have you got!" I never used even
mild profanity with him unless things were very
serious. Now, it got his attention.
"Don't worry," he muttered. "I'll help."
Then we found the arm. Marcus was the one who
spotted it-- something dark lying just off the trail we
were following. It was hung up in the low branches of
a scrub oak.
The arm was fresh and whole-- a hand, a lower, and
an upper arm. A black man's arm, just the color of
my father's where color could be seen. It was
slashed and cut all over, yet still powerful looking--
long-boned, long-fingered, yet muscular and
massive. . . . Familiar?
Smooth, white bone stuck out at the shoulder end.
The arm had been cut off with a sharp knife. The
bone wasn't broken. And, yes. It could have been
his.
Marcus threw up when he saw it. I made myself
examine it, search it for something familiar, for
certainty. Jay Garfield tried to stop me, and I shoved
him away and told him to go to hell. I'm sorry for
that, and I told him so later. But I had to know. And
yet, I still don't know. The arm was too slashed and
covered in dried blood. I couldn't tell. Jay Garfield
took fingerprints in his pocket notebook, but we left
the arm itself. How could we take that back to Cory?
And we kept searching. What else could we do?
George Hsu found a rattlesnake. It didn't bite anyone
and we didn't kill it. I don't think anyone was in a
mood to kill things.
We saw dogs, but they kept away from us. I even
saw a cat watching us from under a bush. Cats
either run like hell or crouch and freeze. They're
interesting to watch, somehow. Or, at any other time,
they'd be interesting.
Then someone began to scream. I've never heard
screams like that before-- on and on. A man,
screaming, begging, praying: "No! No more! Oh,
God, no more, please. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, please!"
Then there were wordless, grating cries and high,
horrible mewling.
It was a man's voice, not like my father's but not that
different from his. We couldn't locate the source. The
echoes bounced around the canyon, confusing us,
sending us first in one direction, then in another. The
canyon was full of loose rock and spiny, vicious
plants that kept us on the pathways where there
were pathways.
The screaming stopped, then began again as a kind
of horrible, bubbling noise.
I had let myself fall back to the end of the line of us
by then. I wasn't in trouble. Sound doesn't trigger my
sharing. I have to see another person in pain before
I do any sharing. And this was one I'd do anything to
avoid seeing.
Marcus dropped back beside me and whispered,
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I said. "I just don't want to know anything
about what's happening to that man.
"Keith," he said.
"I know," I agreed.
We walked our bikes behind the others, watching the
back trail. Kayla Talcott dropped back to see if we
were all right. She hadn't wanted us to come, but
since we had come, she had come, she had kept an
eye on us. She's like that.
"It doesn't sound like your daddy," she said. "Doesn't
sound like him at all." Kayla is from Texas like my
biological mother. Sometimes she sounded as
though she'd never left, and sometimes she
sounded as though she'd never been near any part
of the south. She seemed to be able to turn the
accent on and off. She tended to turn it on for
comforting people, and for threatening to kill them.
Sometimes when I'm with Curtis, I see her in his
face and wonder what kind of relative-- what kind of
mother-in-law-- she would make. Today I think both
Marcus and I were glad she was there. We needed
to be close to someone with her kind of mothering
strength.
The horrible noise ended. Maybe the poor man was
dead and out of his misery. I hope so.
We never found him. We found human bones and
animal bones. We found the rotting corpses of five
people scattered among the boulders. We found the
cold remains of a fire with a human femur and two
human skulls lying among the ashes.
At last, we came home and wrapped our community
wall around us and huddled in our illusions of
security.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2026
No one has found my father. Almost every adult in
the neighborhood has spent some time looking.
Richard Moss didn't, but his oldest son and daughter
did. Wardell Parrish didn't, but his sister and oldest
nephew did. I don't know what else people could
have done. If I did know, I would be out doing it.
And yet nothing, nothing, nothing! The police never
came up with any sign of him. He never turned up
anywhere. He's vanished, gone. Even the severed
arm's fingerprints weren't his.
Every night since Wednesday, I've dreamed that
horrible screaming. I've gone out twice more with
teams hunting through the canyons. We've found
nothing but more of the dead and the poorest of the
living-- people who are all staring eyes and visible
bones. My own bones ached in empathy.
Sometimes if I sleep for a while without hearing the
screaming, I see these-- the living dead. I've always
seen them. I've never seen them.
A team I wasn't with found a living child being eaten
by dogs. The team killed the dogs, then watched,
helpless as the boy died.
I spoke at services this morning. Maybe it was my
duty. I don't know. People came for church, all
uncertain and upset, not knowing what they should
do. I think they wanted to draw together, and they
had years of habit drawing them together at our
house on Sunday morning. They were uncertain and
hesitant, but they came.
Both Wyatt Talcott and Jay Garfield offered to
speak. Both did say a few words, both informally
eulogizing my father, though neither admitted that
that was what they were doing. I was afraid
everyone would do that and the service would
become an impossible impromptu funeral. When I
stood up, it wasn't just to say a couple of words. I
meant to give them something they could take
home-- something that might make them feel that
enough had been said for today.
I thanked them all for the ongoing-- emphasize
ongoing-- efforts to find my father. Then. . .well, then
I talked about perseverance. I preached a sermon
about perseverance if an unordained kid can be said
to preach a sermon. No one was going to stop me.
Cory was the only one who might have tried, but
Cory was in a kind of walking coma. She wasn't
doing anything she didn't have to do.
So I preached from Luke, chapter eighteen, verses
one through eight: the parable of the importunate
widow. It's one I've always liked. A widow is so
persistent, in her demands for justice that she
overcomes the resistance of a judge who fears
neither God nor man. She wears him down.
Moral: The weak can overcome the strong if the
weak persist. Persisting isn't always safe, but it's
often necessary.
My father and the adults present had created and
maintained our community in spite of the scarcity
and the violence outside. Now, with my father or
without him, that community had to go on, hold
together, survive. I talked about my nightmares and
the source of those nightmares. Some people might
not have wanted their kids to hear things like that,
but I didn't care. If Keith had known more, maybe he
would still be alive. But I didn't mention Keith. People
could say what happened to Keith was his own fault.
No one could say that about Dad. I didn't want
anyone to be able to say it about this community
some day.
"Those nightmares of mine are our future if we fail
one another," I said, winding up. "Starvation, agony
at the hands of people who aren't human any more.
Dismemberment. Death.
"We have God and we have each other. We have
our island community, fragile, and yet a fortress.
Sometimes it seems too small and too weak to
survive. And like the widow in Christ's parable, its
enemies fear neither God nor man. But also like the
widow, it persists. We persist. This is our place, no
matter what."
That was my message. I left it there, hanging before
them with an unfinished feel to it. I could feel them
expecting more, then realizing that I wasn't going to
say more, then biting down on what I had said.
At just the right moment, Kayla Talcott began an old
song. Others took it up, singing slowly, but with
feeling: "We shall not, we shall not be moved. . . ."
I think this might have sounded weak or even pitiful
somehow if it had been begun by a lesser voice. I
think I might have sang it weakly. I'm only a fair
singer. Kayla, on the other hand, has a big voice,
beautiful, clear, and able to do everything she asks
of it. Also, Kayla has a reputation for not moving
unless she wants to.
Later, as she was leaving, I thanked her.
She looked at me. I'd grown past her years ago, and
she had to look up. "Good job," she said, and
nodded and walked away toward her house. I love
her.
I got other compliments today, and I think they were
sincere. Most said, in one way or another, "You're
right," and "I didn't know you could preach like that,"
and "Your father would be proud of you."
Yeah. I hope so. I did it for him. He built this bunch
of houses into a community. And now, he's probably
dead. I wouldn't let them bury him, but I know. I'm no
good at denial and self-deception. That was Dad's
funeral that I was preaching-- his and the
community's. Because as much as I want all that I
said to be true, it isn't. We'll be moved, all right. It's
just a matter of when, by whom, and in how many
pieces.
13
There is no end
To what a living world
Will demand of you.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2026
Today Reverend Matthew Robinson in whose
church I was baptized came to preach my father's
funeral. Cory made the arrangements. There was no
body, no urn. No one knows what happened to my
father. Neither we nor the police have been able to
find out. We're sure he's dead. He would find a way
to come home if he were alive, so we're certain he's
dead.
No, we're not certain. We're not certain at all. Is he
sick somewhere? Hurt? Held against his will for who
knows what reason by who knows what monsters?
This is worse than when Keith died. So much worse.
As horrible as that was, we knew he was dead.
Whatever he suffered, we knew he wasn't suffering
any more. Not in this world, anyway. We knew. Now,
we don't know anything. He is dead. But we don't
know!
The Dunns must have felt this when Tracy vanished.
Crazy as they are, crazy as she was, they must have
felt this. What do they feel now. Tracy never came
back. If she's not dead, what must be happening to
her outside? A girl alone only faced one kind of
future outside. I intend to go out posing as a man
when I go.
How will they all feel when I go? I'll be dead to
them-- to Cory, the boys, the neighborhood. They'll
hope I'm dead, considering the supposed
alternative. Thank Dad for my tallness and my
strength.
I won't have to leave Dad now. He's already left me.
He was 57. What reason would strangers have for
keeping a 57-year-old man alive? Once they'd
robbed him, they would either let him go or kill him. If
they let him go, he'd come home, walking, limping,
crawling.
So he's dead.
That's that.
It has to be.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2026
The Garfields left for Olivar today-- Phillida, Jay, and
Joanne. An armored KSF truck came from Olivar to
collect them and their belongings. The adults of the
community had all they could do to keep the little
kids from climbing all over the truck and pestering
the drivers to death. Most kids my brothers' ages
have never been close to a truck that runs. Some of
the younger Moss kids have never seen a truck of
any kind. The Moss kids weren't even allowed to
visit the Yannis house back when the Yannis
television still worked.
The two guys from KSF were patient once they
realized the kids weren't thieves or vandals. Those
two guys with their uniforms, pistols, whips, and
clubs, looked more like cops than movers. No doubt
they had even more substantial weapons in the
truck. My brother Bennett said he saw bigger guns
mounted inside the truck when he climbed onto the
hood. But when you consider how much a truck that
size is worth, and how many people might want to
relieve them of it and its contents, I guess the
weaponry isn't surprising.
The two movers were a black and a white, and I
could see that Cory considered that hopeful. Maybe
Olivar wouldn't be the white enclave that Dad had
expected.
Cory cornered the black guy and talked to him for as
long as he would let her. Will she try now to get us
into Olivar? I think she will. After all, without Dad's
salary, she'll have to do something. I don't think we
have a prayer of being accepted. The insurance
company isn't going to pay-- or not for a long time.
Its people choose not to believe that Dad is dead.
Without proof he can't be declared legally dead for
seven years. Can they hold on to our money for that
long? I don't know, but it wouldn't surprise me. We
could starve many times over in seven years. And
Cory must know she alone can't earn enough in
Olivar to feed and house us. Is she hoping to get
work for me, too? I don't know what we're going to
do.
Joanne and I cried all over each other, saying
good-bye. We promised to phone each other, to stay
in touch. I don't think we'll be able to. It costs extra to
call Olivar. We won't be able to afford it. I don't think
she will either. Chances are, I'll never see her again.
The people I've grown up with are falling out of my
life, one by one.
After the truck pulled away, I found Curtis and took
him back to the old darkroom to make love. We
hadn't done it for a long time, and I needed it. I wish
I could imagine just marrying Curtis, staying here,
and having a decent life with him.
It isn't possible. Even if there were no Earthseed, it
wouldn't be possible. I would almost be doing the
family a favor if I left now-- one less mouth to feed.
Unless I could somehow get a job. . . .
"We've got to get out of here, too," Curtis said as we
lay together afterward, lingering, tempting fate, not
wanting to lose the feel of each other so soon. But
that wasn't what he had meant. I turned my head to
look at him.
"Don't you want to go?" he asked. "Wouldn't you like
to get out of this dead end neighborhood, out of
Robledo.
I nodded. "I was just thinking that. But-- "
"I want you to marry me, and I want us to get out of
here," he said in a near whisper. "This place is
dying."
looked down at
him. The only light in the room came from a single
window up near the ceiling. Nothing covered it any
more, and the glass was broken out of it, but still,
only a little light came in. Curtis's face was full of
shadows.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked him.
"Not Olivar," he said. "That could turn out to be a
bigger dead end than living here."
"Where, then?"
"I don't know. Oregon or Washington? Canada?
Alaska?"
I don't think I gave any sign of sudden excitement.
People tell me my face doesn't show them what I'm
feeling. My sharing has been a hard teacher. But he
saw something.
"You've already been thinking about leaving, haven't
you," he demanded. "That's why you won't talk about
getting married. "
I rested my hand on his smooth chest.
"You were thinking about going alone!" He grasped
my wrist, seemed ready to push it away. Then he
held on to it, kept it. "You were just going to walk
away from here and leave me."
I turned so that he couldn't see my face because
now I had a feeling my emotions were all too
obvious: Confusion, fear, hope. . . . Of course I had
intended to go alone, and of course I hadn't told
anyone that I was leaving. And I had not decided yet
how Dad's disappearance would affect my going.
That raised frightening questions. What are my
responsibilities? What will happen to my brothers if I
leave them to Cory? They're her sons, and she'll
move the earth to take care of them, keep them fed
and clothed and housed. But can she do it alone?
How?
"I want to go," I admitted, moving around, trying to
be comfortable on the pallet of old sleepsacks that
we had put down on the concrete floor. "I planned to
go. Don't tell anyone."
"How can I if I go with you?"
I smiled, loving him. But. . . . "Cory and my brothers
are going to need help," I said. "When my father was
here, I planned to go next year when I'm 18. Now. .
.I don't know."
"Where were you going?"
"North. Maybe as far as Canada. Maybe not."
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" Why alone, he meant.
I shrugged. "I could get killed as soon as I leave
here. I could starve. The cops could pick me up.
Dogs could get me. I could catch a disease.
Anything could happen to me; I've thought about it. I
haven't named half the bad possibilities."
"That's why you need help!"
"That's why I couldn't ask anyone else to walk away
from food and shelter and as much safety as there is
in our world. To just start walking north, and hope
you wind up some place good. How could I ask that
of you?"
"It's not that bad. Farther north, we can get work."
"Maybe. But people have been flooding north for
years. Jobs are scarce up there, too. And statelines
and borders are closed."
"There's nothing down here!"
"I know."
"So how can you help Cory and your brothers?"
"I want to marry you," I said. I hesitated, and there
was absolute silence. I couldn't believe I'd heard
myself say such a thing, but it was true. Maybe I was
just feeling bereft. Keith, my father, the Garfields,
Mrs. Quintanilla. . . . People could disappear so
easily. I wanted someone with me who cared about
me, and who wouldn't disappear. But my judgement
wasn't entirely gone.
"When my family is back on its feet, we'll marry," I
said. "Then we can get out of here. I just have to
know that my brothers will be all right."
"If we're going to marry anyway, why not do it now?"
Because I have things to tell you, I thought. Because
if you reject me or make me reject you with your
reactions, I don't want to have to hang around and
watch you with someone else.
"Not now," I said. "Wait for me,"
He shook his head in obvious disgust. "What the hell
do you think I've been doing?"
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2026
It's Christmas Eve.
Last night someone set fire to the Payne-Parrish
house. While the community tried to put out the fire,
and then tried to keep it from spreading, three other
houses were robbed. Ours was one of the three.
Thieves took all our store-bought food: wheat flour,
sugar, canned goods, packaged goods. . . . They
took our radio-- our last one. The crazy thing is,
before we went to bed we had been listening to a
half-hour news feature about increasing arson.
People are setting more fires to cover crimes--
although why they would bother these days, I don't
know. The police are no threat to criminals. People
are setting fires to do what our arsonist did last
night-- to get the neighbors of the arson victim to
leave their own homes unguarded. People are
setting fires to get rid of whomever they dislike from
personal enemies to anyone who looks or sounds
foreign or racially different. People are setting fires
because they're frustrated, angry, hopeless. They
have no power to improve their lives, but they have
the power to make others even more miserable. And
the only way to prove to yourself that you have
power is to use it.
Then there's that fire drug with its dozen or so
names: Blaze, fuego, flash, sunfire. . . . The most
popular name is pyro-- short for pyromania, It's all
the same drug, and it's been around for a while.
From what Keith said, it's becoming more popular. It
makes watching the leaping, changing patterns of
fire a better, more intense, longer-lasting high than
sex. Like Paracetco, my biological mother's drug of
choice, pyro screws around with people's
neurochemistry. But Paracetco began as a
legitimate drug intended to help victims of
Alzheimer's disease. Pyro was an accident. It was a
home-brew-- a basement drug invented by someone
who was trying to assemble one of the other
higher-priced street drugs. The inventor made a very
small chemical mistake, and wound up with pyro.
That happened on the east coast and caused an
immediate increase in the number of senseless
arson fires, large and small.
Pyro worked its way west without making nearly as
much trouble as it could have. Now its popularity is
growing. And in dry-as-straw southern California, it
can cause a real orgy of burning.
"My God," Cory said when the radio report was over.
And in a small, whispery voice, she quoted from the
Book of Revelation: "`Babylon the great is fallen, is
fallen, and is become the habitation of devils. . . .'"
And the devils set fire to the Payne-Parrish house.
At about two a.m. I awoke to the jangling of the bell:
Emergency! Earthquake? Fire? Intruders?
But there was no shaking, no unfamiliar noise, no
smoke. Whatever was happening, it wasn't at our
house. I got up, threw clothing on, debated for a
second whether to snatch my survival pack, then left
it. Our house didn't seem to be in immediate danger.
My pack was safe in the closet, mixed in among
blankets and bundles of old clothes. If I had to have
it, I could come back and snatch it in seconds.
I ran outside to see what was needed, and saw at
once. The Payne-Parrish house was fully involved,
surrounded by fire. One of the watchers on duty was
still sounding the alarm. People spilled from all the
houses, and must have seen as I did that the
Payne-Parrish house was a total loss. Neighbors
were already wetting down the houses on either
side. A live oak tree-- one of our huge, ancient
ones-- was afire. There was a light wind blowing,
swirling bits of burning leaves and twigs into the air
and scattering them. I joined the people who were
beating and wetting the grounds.
Where were the Paynes? Where was Wardell
Parrish? Had anyone called the fire department? A
house full of people, after all, it wasn't like a burning
garage.
I asked several people. Kayla Talcott said she had
called them. I was grateful and ashamed. I wouldn't
have asked if Dad were still with us. One of us would
have just called. Now we couldn't afford to call.
No one had seen any of the Paynes. Wardell Parrish
I found in the Yannis yard where Cory and my
brother Bennett were wrapping him in a blanket. He
was coughing so much that he couldn't talk, and
wearing only pajama pants.
"Is he okay?" I asked.
"He breathed a lot of smoke," Cory said. "Has
someone called-- "
"Kayla Talcott called the fire department."
"Good. But no one's at the gate to let them in."
"I'll go." I turned away, but she caught my arm.
"The others?" she whispered. She meant the
Paynes, of course.
"I don't know."
She nodded and let me go.
I went to the gate, borrowing Alex Montoya's key on
the way. He always seemed to have his gate key in
his pocket. It was because of him that I didn't go
back into our house and maybe interrupt a robbery
and be killed for my trouble.
Firefighters arrived in no great hurry. I let them in,
locked the gate after them, and watched as they put
out the fire.
No one had seen the Paynes. We could only
assume they had never gotten out. Cory tried to take
Wardell Parrish to our house, but he refused to leave
until he found out one way or the other about his
twin sister and his nieces and nephews.
When the fire was almost out, the bell began to ring
again. We all looked around. Caroline Balter, Harry's
mother, was jerking and pushing at the bell and
screaming.
"Intruders!" she shouted. "Thieves! They've broken
into the houses!"
And we all rushed without thinking back to our
houses. Wardell Parrish came along with my family,
still coughing, and wheezing, and as useless-- as
weaponless-- as the rest of us. We could have been
killed, rushing in that way. Instead, we were lucky.
We scared away our thieves.
Along with our store-bought food and the radio, the
thieves got some of Dad's tools and supplies-- nails,
wire, screws, bolts, that kind of thing. They didn't get
the phone, the computer, or anything in Dad's office.
In fact, they didn't get into Dad's office at all. I
suppose we scared them away before they could
search the whole house.
They stole clothing and shoes from Cory's room, but
didn't touch my room or the boys'. They got some of
our money-- the kitchen money, Cory calls it. She
had hidden it in the kitchen in a box of detergent.
She had thought no one would steal such a thing. In
fact, the thieves might have stolen it for resale
without realizing that it wasn't just detergent. It could
have been worse. The kitchen money was only
about a thousand dollars for minor emergencies.
The thieves did not find the rest of our money, some
of it hidden out by our lemon tree, and some hidden
with our two remaining guns under the floor in Cory's
closet. Dad had gone to a lot of trouble to make a
kind of floor safe, not locked, but completely
concealed beneath a rug and a battered chest of
drawers filled with sewing things-- salvaged bits of
cloth, buttons, zippers, hooks, things like that. The
chest of drawers could be moved with one hand. It
slid from one side of the closet to the other if you
pushed it right, and in seconds you could have the
money and the guns in your hands. The
concealment trick wouldn't have defeated people
who had time to make a thorough search, but it had
defeated our thieves. They had dumped some of the
drawers onto the floor, but they had not thought to
look under the chest.
The thieves did take Cory's sewing machine. It was
a compact, sturdy old machine with its own carrying
case. Both case and machine were gone. That was
a real blow. Cory and I both use that machine to
make, alter, and repair clothing for the family. I had
thought I might even be able to earn some money
with the machine, sewing for other people in the
neighborhood. Now the machine is gone. Sewing for
the family will have to be done by hand. It will take
much more time, and may not look like what we're
used to. Bad. Hard. But not a fatal blow. Cory cried
over the loss of her machine, but we can get along
without it. She's just being worn down by one blow
after another.
We'll adapt. We'll have to. God is Change.
Strange how much it helps me to remember that.
Curtis Talcott just came to my window to tell me that
the firemen have found charred bodies and bones in
the ashes of the Payne-Parrish house. The police
are here, taking reports of the robberies and the
obvious arson. I told Cory. She can tell Wardell
Parrish or let the cops tell him. He's lying down on
one of our living room couches. I doubt that he's
sleeping. Even though I've never liked him, I feel
sorry for him. He's lost his home and his family. He's
the only survivor. What must that be like?
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 2026
I don't know how long it can last, but in some way
that I suspect is not quite legal, Cory has taken over
part of the job Dad held for so long. She'll give the
classes Dad gave. With the computer hookups we
have already in place, she'll issue assignments,
receive homework, and be available for phone and
compu-conferences. The administrative part of
Dad's work will be handled by someone else who
can use the extra money, and who is willing to show
up at the college more often than once or twice a
month. It will be as though Dad were still teaching,
but had decided to give up his other responsibilities.
Cory has arranged this by pleading and begging, by
crying and cajoling and calling in every favor and
every friend she could think of. People at the college
know her. She taught there before Bennett's birth,
before she saw the need here and began the
front-room school that serves all the children of the
neighborhood. Dad was all for her quitting the
college because he didn't want her going back and
forth outside, exposed to all the dangers that
involved. The neighbors pay a per-kid fee, but it isn't
much. No one could support a household on it.
Now Cory will have to go outside again. She's
already drafting men and older boys in the
neighborhood to escort her when she has to go out.
There are plenty of unemployed men here, and Cory
will be paying them a small fee.
So in a few days, the new term will start and Cory
will do Dad's work-- while I do her work. I'll handle
the school with help from her and from Russel Dory,
Joanne and Harry's grandfather. He used to be a
highschool math teacher. He's been retired for
years, but he's still sharp. I don't think I need his
help, but Cory does, and he's willing, so that's that.
Alex Montoya and Kayla Talcott will take over Dad's
preaching and other church work. Neither is
ordained, but both have substituted for Dad in the
past. Both have authority in the community and the
church. And, of course, both know their Bible.
This is how we will survive and hold together. It will
work. I don't know how long it will last, but for now, it
will work.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 30,
2026
Wardell Parrish has finally dragged himself back to
his people-- to the part of his family that he lived with
before he and his sister inherited the Sims house.
He's stayed with us since his sister and all her
children were killed. Cory gave him some of Dad's
clothes which were too big for him. Much too big.
He wandered around, not talking, not seeming to
see anything, not eating enough. . . . Then yesterday
he said, like a little boy, "I want to go home. I can't
stay here. I hate it here; everyone's dead! I have to
go home."
So today Wyatt Talcott, Michael, and Curtis escorted
him home. Poor man. He's years older than he was
a week ago. I think he may not live much longer.
2027
We are Earthseed. We are flesh--
self-aware, questing,
problem-solving flesh. We are that
aspect of Earthlife best able to
shape God knowingly. We are
Earthlife maturing, Earthlife
preparing to fall away from the
parent world. We are Earthlife
preparing to take root in new
ground, Earthlife fulfilling its
purpose, its promise, its Destiny.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
by Lauren Oya Olamina
14
In order to rise
From its own ashes
A phoenix
First
Must
Burn.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, JULY 31, 2027--
MORNING
Last night, when I escaped from the neighborhood, it
was burning. The houses, the trees, the people:
Burning.
Smoke awoke me, and I shouted down the hall to
Cory and the boys. I grabbed my clothes and
emergency pack and followed Cory as she herded
the boys out.
The bell never rang. Our watchers must have been
killed before they could reach it.
Everything was chaos. People running, screaming,
shooting. The gate had been destroyed. Our
attackers had driven an ancient truck through it.
They must have stolen a truck just to crash it
through our gate.
I think they must have been pyro addicts-- bald
people with painted heads, faces, and hands. Red
faces; blue faces; green faces; screaming mouths;
avid, crazy eyes, glittering in the firelight.
They shot us and shot us and shot us. I saw Natalie
Moss, running, screaming, then pitching backward,
her face half gone, her body still impelled forward.
She fell flat on her back, and did not move again.
I fell with her, caught up in her death. I lay there,
dazed, struggling to move, to get up. Cory and the
boys, running ahead of me never noticed. They ran
on.
I got up, felt for my pack, found it, and ran. I tried not
to see what was happening around me. Hearing the
gunfire and the screams didn't stop me. A dead
body-- Edwin Dunn-- didn't stop me. I bent, snatched
up his gun, and kept running.
Someone screamed near me, then tackled me,
pulled me down. I fired the gun in reflexive terror,
and took the terrible impact in my own stomach. A
green face hung above mine, mouth open, eyes
wide, not yet feeling all his pain. I shot him again,
terrified that his pain would immobilize me when he
did feel it. It seemed that he took a long time to die.
When I could move again, I pushed his body off me.
I got up, still holding the gun, and ran for the
wrecked gate.
Best to be in the darkness outside. Best to hide.
I ran up Meredith Street away from Durant Road,
away from the fires and the shooting. I had lost track
of Cory and the boys. I thought they would go
toward the hills and not toward the center of town.
Every direction was dangerous, but there was more
danger where there were more people. In the night,
a woman and three kids might look like a gift basket
of food, money, and sex.
North toward the hills. North through the dark streets
to where the nearby hills and mountains blotted out
the stars.
And then what?
I didn't know. I couldn't think. I had never been
outside the walls when it was so dark. My only hope
of staying alive was to listen, hear any movement
before it got too close to me, see what I could by
starlight, be as quiet as I could.
I walked down the middle of the street looking and
listening and trying to avoid potholes and chunks of
broken asphalt. There was little other trash. Anything
that would burn, people would use as fuel. Anything
that could be reused or sold had been gathered.
Cory used to comment on that. Poverty, she said,
had made the streets cleaner.
Where was she? Where had she taken my brothers?
Were they all right? Had they even gotten out of the
neighborhood?
I stopped. Were my brothers back there? Was
Curtis? I hadn't seen him at all-- though if anyone
were going to survive this insanity, it would be the
Talcotts. But we had no way of finding each other.
Sound. Footsteps. Two pairs of running footsteps. I
stayed where I was, frozen in place. No sudden
moves to draw attention to me. Had I already been
seen? Could I be seen-- a figure of darker darkness
in an otherwise empty street?
The sound was behind me. I listened and knew that
it was off to one side, approaching, passing. Two
people running down a side street, indifferent to the
noise they made, indifferent to woman-shaped
shadows.
I let out a breath and drew another through my
mouth because I could get more air with less sound
that way. I couldn't go back to the fires and the pain.
If Cory and the boys were there, they were dead or
worse, captive. But they had been ahead of me.
They must have gotten out. Cory wouldn't let them
come back to look for me. There was a bright glow in
the air over what had been our neighborhood. If she
had gotten the boys away, all she had to do was
look back to know that she didn't want to go back.
Did she have her Smith & Wesson? I wished I had it
and the two boxes of ammunition that went with it.
All I had was the knife in my pack and Edwin Dunn's
old .45 automatic. And all the ammunition I had for it
was in it. If it wasn't empty. I knew the gun. It held
seven rounds. I'd fired it twice. How many times had
Edwin Dunn fired it before someone shot him? I
didn't expect to find out until morning. I had a
flashlight in my pack, but I didn't intend to use it
unless I could be certain I wouldn't be making a
target of myself.
During the day the sight of the bulge in my pocket
would be enough to make people think twice about
robbing or raping me. But during the night the blue
gun would be all but invisible even in my hand. If it
were empty, I could only use it as a club. And the
moment I hit someone with it, I might as well hit
myself. If I lost consciousness for any reason during
a fight, I would lose all my possessions if not my life.
Tonight I had to hide.
Tomorrow I would have to try to bluff as much as
possible. Most people wouldn't insist on my shooting
them just to test whether or not the gun was loaded.
For the street poor, unable to afford medical care,
even a minor wound might be fatal.
I am one of the street poor, now. Not as poor as
some, but homeless, alone, full of books and
ignorant of reality. Unless I meet someone from the
neighborhood, there's no one I can afford to trust.
No one to back me up.
Three miles to the hills. I kept to the starlit back
streets, listening and looking around. The gun was in
my hand. I meant to keep it there. I could hear dogs
barking and snarling, fighting somewhere not far
away.
I was in a cold sweat. I had never been more
terrified in my life. Yet nothing attacked me. Nothing
found me.
I didn't go all the way to the hills. Instead I found a
burned out, unwalled house a few blocks before the
end of Meredith Street. Fear of dogs had made me
keep an eye open for anything that might provide
shelter.
The house was a ruin, a plundered ruin. It wasn't
safe to walk into with or without a light. It was a
roofless collection of upright black bones. But it had
been built up off the ground. Five concrete steps led
up to what had been the front porch. There should
be a way under the house.
What if other people were under it?
I walked around it, listening, trying to see. Then,
instead of daring to crawl under, I settled in what
was left of the attached garage. A corner of it was
still standing, and there was enough rubble in front
of that corner to conceal me if I didn't show a light.
Also, if I were surprised, I could get out of the
garage faster than I could crawl out from under a
house. The concrete floor could not collapse under
me as the wooden floor might in what was left of the
house proper. It was as good as I was going to get,
and I was exhausted. I didn't know whether I could
sleep, but I had to rest.
Morning now. What shall I do? I did sleep a little, but
I kept startling awake. Every sound woke me-- the
wind, rats, insects, then squirrels, and birds. . . . I
don't feel rested, but I'm a little less exhausted. So
what shall I do?
How is it that we had never established an outside
meeting place-- somewhere where the family could
reunite after disaster. I remember suggesting to Dad
that we do that, but he had never done anything
about it, and I hadn't pushed the idea as I should
have. (Poor Godshaping. Lack of forethought.)
What now?
Now, I have to go home. I don't want to. The idea
scares me to death. It's taken me a long time just to
write the word: Home. But I have to know about my
brothers, and about Cory and Curtis. I don't know
how I can help if they're hurt or being held by
someone. I don't know what might be waiting for me
back at the neighborhood. More painted faces? The
police? I'm in trouble either way. If the police are
there, I'll have to hide my gun before I go in-- my
gun, and my small amount of money. Carrying a gun
can win you a lot of unwanted attention from the
police if you catch them in the wrong mood. Yet
everyone who has one carries it. The trick, of
course, is not to get caught carrying it.
On the other hand, if the painted faces are still there,
I can't go in at all. How long do those people stay
high on pyro and fire? Do they hang around after
their fun to steal whatever's left and maybe kill a few
more people?
No matter. I have to go and see.
I have to go home.
SATURDAY, JULY 31, 2027
-- EVENING
I have to write. I don't know what else to do. The
others are asleep now, but it isn't dark. I'm on watch
because I couldn't sleep if I tried. I'm jittery and
crazed. I can't cry. I want to get up and just run and
run. . . , Run away from everything. But there isn't
any away.
I have to write. There's nothing familiar left to me but
the writing. God is Change. I hate God. I have to
write.
There were no unburned houses back in the
neighborhood, although some were burned worse
than others. I don't know whether police or
firefighters ever came. If they had come, they were
gone when I got there. The neighborhood was wide
open and crawling with scavengers.
I stood at the gate, staring in as strangers picked
among the black bones of our homes. The ruins
were still smoking, but men, women, and children
were all over them, digging through them, picking
fruit from the trees, stripping our dead, quarreling or
fighting over new acquisitions, stashing things away
in clothing or bundles. . . . Who were these people?
I put my hand on the gun in my pocket-- it had four
rounds left in it-- and I went in. I was grimy from lying
in dirt and ashes all night. I might not be noticed.
I saw three women from an unwalled part of Durant
Road, digging through what was left of the Yannis
house. They were laughing and throwing around
chunks of wood and plaster.
Where were Shani Yannis and her daughters?
Where were her sisters?
I walked through the neighborhood, looking past the
human maggots, trying to find some of the people I
had grown up with. I found dead ones. Edwin Dunn
lay where he had when I took his gun, but now he
was shirtless and shoeless. His pockets had been
turned out.
The ground was littered with ash-covered corpses,
some burned or half blown apart by automatic
weapons fire. Dried or nearly dried blood had pooled
in the street. Two men were prying loose our
emergency bell. The bright, clear, early morning
sunlight made the whole scene less real somehow,
more nightmarelike. I stopped in front of our house
and stared at the five adults and the child who were
picking through the ruins of it. Who were these
vultures? Did the fire draw them? Is that what the
street poor do? Run to fire and hope to find a corpse
to strip?
There was a dead green face on our front porch. I
went up the steps and stood looking at him-- at her.
The green face was a woman-- tall, lean, bald, but
female. And what had she died for? What was the
point of all this?
"Leave her alone"' A woman who had a pair of
Cory's shoes in her hand strode up to me. "She died
for all of us. Leave her alone."
I've never in my life wanted more to kill another
human being. "Get the hell out of my way," I said. I
didn't raise my voice. I don't know how I looked, but
the thief backed away.
I stepped over the green face and went into the
carcass of our home. The other thieves looked at
me, but none of them said anything. One pair, I
noticed, was a man with a small boy. The man was
dressing the boy in a pair of my brother Gregory's
jeans. The jeans were much too big, but the man
belted them and rolled them up.
And where was Gregory, my clownish smartass of a
baby brother? Where was he? Where was
everyone?
The roof of our house had fallen in. Most things had
burned-- kitchen, living room, dining room, my room.
. . . The floor wasn't safe to walk on. I saw one of the
scavengers fall through, give a surprised yell, then
climb, unhurt, onto a floor joist.
Nothing left in my room could be salvaged. Ashes. A
heat-distorted metal bedframe, the broken metal and
ceramic remains of my lamp, bunches of ashes that
had been clothing or books. Many books were not
burned through. They were useless, but they had
been packed so tightly together that the fire had
burned in deeply from the edges and the spines.
Rough circles of unburned paper remained,
surrounded by ash. I didn't find a single whole page.
The back two bedrooms had survived better. That
was where the scavengers were, and where I
headed.
I found bundled pairs of my father's socks, folded
shorts and T-shirts, and an extra holster that I could
use for the .45. All this I found in or under the
unpromising-looking remains of Dad's chest of
drawers. Most things were burned beyond use, but I
stuffed the best of what I found into my pack. The
man with the child came over to scavenge beside
me, and somehow, perhaps because of the child,
because this stranger in his filthy rags was
someone's father, too, I didn't mind. The little boy
watched the two of us, his small brown face
expressionless. He did look a little like Gregory.
I dug a dried apricot out of my pack and held it out to
him. He couldn't have been more than six, but he
wouldn't touch the food until the man told him to.
Good discipline. But at the man's nod, he snatched
the apricot, bit off a tiny taste, then stuffed the rest
into his mouth whole.
So, in company with five strangers, I plundered my
family's home. The ammunition under the closet
floor in my parents' room had burned, had no doubt
exploded. The closet was badly charred. So much
for the money hidden there.
I took dental floss, soap, and a jar of petroleum jelly
from my parents' bathroom. Everything else was
already gone.
I managed to gather one set of outer clothing each
for Cory and my brothers. In particular, I found shoes
for them. There was a woman scavenging among
Marcus's shoes, and she glared at me, but she kept
quiet. My brothers had run out of the house in their
pajamas. Cory had thrown on a coat. I had been the
last to get out of the house because I had risked
stopping to grab jeans, a sweatshirt, and shoes as
well as my emergency pack. I could have been
killed. If I had thought about what I was doing, if I
had had to think, no doubt I would have been killed. I
reacted the way I had trained myself to react--
though my training was far from up to date-- more
memory than anything else. I hadn't practiced late at
night for ages, Yet my self-administered training had
worked.
Now, if I could get these clothes to Cory and my
brothers, I might be able to make up for their lack of
training. Especially if I could get the money under
the rocks by the lemon tree.
I put clothes and shoes into a salvaged pillow case,
looked around for blankets, and couldn't find a one.
They must have been grabbed early. All the more
reason to get the lemon-tree money.
I went out to the peach tree, and, being tall,
managed to reach a couple of nearly-ripe peaches
that other scavengers had missed. Then I looked
around as though for something more to take, and
surprised myself by almost crying at the sight of
Cory's big, well-tended back garden, trampled into
the ground. Peppers, tomatoes, squashes, carrots,
cucumbers, lettuce, melons, sunflowers, beans,
corn. . . . Much of it wasn't ripe yet, but what hadn't
been stolen had been destroyed.
I scavenged a few carrots, a couple of handfuls of
sunflower seeds from flower heads that lay on the
ground, and a few bean pods from vines Cory had
planted to run up the sunflower stalks and corn
plants. I took what was left the way I thought a
late-arriving scavenger would. And I worked my way
toward the lemon tree. When I reached it, heavy with
little green lemons, I hunted for any with even a hint
of paling, of yellow. I took a few from the tree, and
from the ground. Cory had planted shade-loving
flowers at the base of the tree, and they had thrived
there. She and my father had scattered small,
rounded boulders among these in a way that
seemed no more than decorative. A few of these
had been turned over, crushing the flowers near
them. In fact, the rock with the money under it had
been turned over. But not the two or three inches of
dirt over the money packet, triple wrapped and
heat-sealed in plastic.
I snatched the packet in no more time than it had
taken to pick up a couple of lemons a moment
before. First I spotted the hiding place, then I
snatched up the money packet along with a hand full
of dirt. Then, eager to leave, but terrified of drawing
attention to myself, I picked up a few more lemons
and hunted around for more food.
The figs were hard and green instead of purple, and
the persimmons were yellow-green instead of
orange. I found a single ear of corn left on a downed
stalk and used it to stuff the money packet deeper
into my blanket pack. Then I left.
With my pack on my back and the pillow case in my
left arm, resting on my hip like a baby, I walked
down the driveway to the street. I kept my right hand
free for the gun still in my pocket. I had not taken
time to put on the holster.
There were more people within the walls than there
had been when I arrived. I had to walk past most of
them to get out. Others were leaving with their loads,
and I tried to follow them without quite attaching
myself to any particular group. This meant that I
moved more slowly than I would have chosen to. I
had time to look at the corpses and see what I didn't
want to see.
Richard Moss, stark naked, lying in a pool of his own
blood. His house, closer to the gate than ours, had
been burned to the ground. Only the chimney stuck
up blackened and naked from the rubble. Where
were his two surviving wives Karen and Zahra? Or
had they survived? Where were all his many
children?
Little Robin Balter, naked, filthy, bloody between her
legs, cold, bony, barely pubescent. Yet she might
have married my brother Marcus someday. She
might have been my sister. She and always been
such a bright, sharp, great little kid, all serious and
knowing. Twelve going on thirty-five, Cory used to
say. She always smiled when she said it.
Russell Dory, Robin's grandfather. Only his shoes
had been taken. His body had been almost torn
apart by automatic weapons fire. An old man and a
child. What had the painted faces gotten for all their
killing?
"She died for us," the scavenger woman had said of
the green face. Some kind of insane burn-the-rich
movement, Keith had said. We've never been rich,
but to the desperate, we looked rich. We were
surviving and we had our wall. Did our community
die so that addicts could make a help-the-poor
political statement?
There were other corpses. I didn't get a close look at
most of them. They littered the front yards, the
street, and the island. There was no sign of our
emergency bell now. The men who had wanted it
had carried it away-- perhaps to be sold for its metal.
I saw Layla Yannis, Shani's oldest daughter. Like
Robin, she had been raped. I saw Michael Talcott,
one side of his head smashed in. I didn't look around
for Curtis. I was terrified that I might see him lying
nearby. I was almost out of control as it was, and I
couldn't draw attention to myself. I couldn't be
anything more than another scavenger hauling away
treasure.
Bodies passed under my eyes; Jeremy Balter, one
of Robin's brothers, Philip Moss, George Hsu, his
wife and his oldest son, Juana Montoya, Rubin
Quintanilla, Lidia Cruz. . . . Lidia was only eight
years old. She had been raped, too.
I made it back through the gate. I didn't break down.
I hadn't seen Cory or my brothers in the carnage.
That didn't mean they weren't there, but I hadn't
seen them. They might be alive. Curtis might be
alive. Where could I look for them?
The Talcotts had relatives living in Robledo, but I
didn't know where. Somewhere on the other side of
River Street. I couldn't look for them, though Curtis
might have gone to them. Why hadn't anyone else
stayed to salvage what they could?
I circled the neighborhood, keeping the wall in sight,
then made a greater circle. I saw no one-- or at least
no one I knew. I saw other street poor who stared at
me.
Then because I didn't know what else to do, I
headed back toward my burned out garage on
Meredith Street. I couldn't call the police. All the
phones I knew of were slag. No strangers would let
me use their phone if they had phones, and I didn't
know anyone whom I could pay to call and trust to
make the call. Most people would avoid me or be
tempted to keep my money and never call. And
anyway, if the police have ignored what's been done
to my neighborhood so far, if such a fire and so
many corpses can be ignored, why should I go to
them? What would they do? Arrest me? Take my
cash as their fee? I wouldn't be surprised. Best to
stay clear of them.
But where was my family!
Someone called my name.
I turned around, my hand in my pocket, and saw
Zahra Moss and Harry Balter-- Richard Moss's
youngest wife and Robin Balter's oldest brother.
They were an unlikely pair, but they were definitely
together. They managed, without touching each
other, to give the appearance of all but clinging
together. Both were blood-spattered and ragged. I
looked at Harry's battered swollen face and
remembered that Joanne had loved him-- or thought
she had-- and that he wouldn't marry her and go with
her to Olivar because he believed what Dad believed
about Olivar.
"Are you all right?" he asked me.
I nodded, remembering Robin. Did he know? Russell
Dory, Robin, and Jeremy. . . . "They beat you up?" I
asked, feeling stupid and awkward. I didn't want to
tell him his grandfather, brother, and sister were
dead.
"I had to fight my way out last night. I was lucky they
didn't shoot me." He swayed, looked around. "Let's
sit on the curb."
Both Zahra and I looked around, made sure no one
else was near by. We sat with Harry between us. I
sat on my pillowcase of clothing. Zahra and Harry
were fully dressed, in spite of their coating of blood
and dirt, but they carried nothing. Did they have
nothing, or had they left their things somewhere--
perhaps with whatever was left of their families. And
where was Zahra's little girl Bibi? Did she know that
Richard Moss was dead?
"Everyone's dead," Zahra whispered as though
speaking into my thoughts. "Everyone. Those
painted bastards killed them all!"
"No!" Harry shook his head. "We got out. There'll be
some others." He sat with his face in his hands, and
I wondered whether he was more hurt than I had
thought. I wasn't sharing any serious pain with him.
"Have either of you seen my brothers or Cory?" I
asked.
"Dead," Zahra whispered. "Like my Bibi. All dead."
I jumped. "No! Not all of them. No! Did you see
them?"
"I saw most of the Montoya family," Harry said. He
wasn't talking to me as much as musing aloud. "We
saw them last night. They said Juana was dead. The
rest of them were going to walk to Glendale where
their relatives live."
"But-- " I began.
"And I saw Laticia Hsu. She had been stabbed 40 or
50 times."
"But did you see my brothers?" I had to ask.
"They're all dead, I told you," Zahra said. "They got
out, but the paints caught them and dragged them
back and killed them. I saw. One of them had me
down, and he. . . . I saw."
She was being raped when she saw my family
dragged back and killed? Was that what she meant?
Was it true?
"I went back this morning," I said. "I didn't see their
bodies. Didn't see any of them." Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh,
no. . . .
"I saw. Your mother. All of them. I saw." Zahra
hugged herself. "I didn't want to see, but I saw."
We all sat without talking. I don't know how long we
sat there. Now and then someone walked past us
and looked at us, some dirty, ragged person with
bundles. Cleaner people in little bunches rode past
us on bikes. A group of three rode past on
motorcycles, their electric hum and whine strange in
the quiet street.
When I got up, the other two looked at me. For no
reason except habit, I picked up my pillowcase. I
don't know what I meant to do with the things in it. It
had occurred to me, though, that I should get back
to my garage before someone else settled there. I
wasn't thinking very well. It was as though that
garage was home now, and all I wanted in the world
was to be there.
Harry got up and almost fell down again. He bent
and threw up into the gutter. The sight of his
throwing up grabbed at me, and I only just managed
to look away in time to avoid joining him. He
finished, spat, turned to face Zahra and me, and
coughed.
"I feel like hell," he said.
"They hit him in the head last night," Zahra
explained. "He got me away from the guy who was. .
. . Well, you know. He got me away, but they hurt
him."
"There's a burned out garage where I slept last
night," I said. "It's a long walk, but he can rest there.
We can all rest there."
Zahra took my pillowcase and carried it. Maybe
something in it could do her some good. We walked
on either side of Harry and kept him from stopping or
wandering off or staggering too much. Somehow, we
got him to the garage.
15
Kindness eases Change.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SUNDAY, AUGUST 1, 2027
Harry slept most of the day today. Zahra and I took
turns staying with him. He has a concussion, at
least, and he needs time to heal. We haven't talked
about what we'll do if he gets sicker instead of
healing. Zahra doesn't want to abandon him
because he fought to save her. I don't want to
abandon him because I've known him all my life.
He's a good guy. I wonder if there's some way to get
in touch with the Garfields. They would give him a
home, or at least see that he has medical care.
But he doesn't seem to be getting worse. He totters
out to the fenced back yard to urinate. He eats the
food and drinks the water that I give him. With no
need for discussion, we're eating and drinking
sparingly from my supplies. They're all we have.
Soon we'll have to risk going out to buy more. But
today, Sunday, is a day of rest and healing for us.
The pain of Harry's headache and his bruised,
beaten body are almost welcome to me. They're
distractions. Along with Zahra's talking and crying for
her dead daughter, they fill my mind.
Their misery eases my own, somehow. It gives me
moments when I don't think about my family.
Everyone is dead. But how can they be? Everyone?
Zahra has a soft, little-girl voice that I used to think
was phony. It's real, but it takes on a sandpaper
roughness when she's upset. It sounds painful, as
though it's abrading her throat as she speaks.
She had seen her daughter killed, seen the blue
face who shot Bibi as Zahra ran, carrying her. She
believed the blue face was enjoying himself,
shooting at all the moving targets. She said his
expression reminded her of a man having sex.
"I fell down," she whispered. "I thought I was dead. I
thought he had killed me. There was blood. Then I
saw Bibi's head drop to one side. A red face
grabbed her from me. I didn't see where he came
from. He grabbed her and threw her into the Hsu
house. The house was burning everywhere. He
threw her into the fire.
"I went crazy then. I don't know what I did.
Somebody grabbed me, then I was free, then
somebody shoved me down and fell on me. I
couldn't get my breath, and he tore my clothes. Then
he was on me, and I couldn't do nothing. That's
when I saw your mother, your brothers. . . .
"Then Harry was there, and he pulled the bastard off
me. He told me later that I was screaming. I don't
know what I was doing. He was beating up the guy
he'd pulled off me when a new guy jumped him. I hit
the new guy with a rock and Harry knocked the other
one out. Then we got away. We just ran. We didn't
sleep. He hid between two unwalled houses down
the street away from the fire until a guy came out
with an ax and chased us away. Then we just
wandered until we found you. We didn't even really
know each other before. You know. Richard never
wanted us to have much to do with the neighbors--
especially the white ones."
I nodded, remembering Richard Moss. "He's dead,
you know," I said. "I saw him." I wanted to take the
words back as soon as I'd said them. I didn't know
how to tell someone her husband was dead, but
there must be a better, gentler way than that.
She stared at me, stricken. I wanted to apologize for
my bluntness, but I didn't think it would help. "I'm
sorry," I said in a kind of generic apology for
everything. She began to cry, and I repeated, "I'm
sorry."
I held her and let her cry. Harry woke up, drank a
little water, and listened while Zahra told how
Richard Moss had bought her from her homeless
mother when she was only fifteen-- younger than I
had thought-- and brought her to live in the first
house she had ever known. He gave her enough to
eat and didn't beat her, and even when her co-wives
were hateful to her, it was a thousand times better
than living outside with her mother and starving.
Now she was outside again. In six years, she had
gone from nothing to nothing.
"Do you have someplace to go?" she asked us at
last. Do you know anybody who still has a house?"
I looked at Harry. "You might be able to get into
Olivar if you can walk there from here. The Garfields
would take you in."
He thought about that for a while. "I don't want to,"
he said. "I don't think there's any more future in
Olivar than there was in our neighborhood. But at
least in our neighborhood, we had the guns."
"For all the good it did us," Zahra muttered.
"I know. But they were our guns, not hired gunmen.
No one could turn them against us. In Olivar, from
what Joanne said, no one's allowed to have a gun
except the security force. And who the hell are
they?"
"Company people," I said. "People from outside
Olivar."
He nodded. "That's what I heard, too. Maybe it will
be all right, but it doesn't sound all right."
"It sounds better than starving," Zahra said. "You
guys have never missed a meal, have you?"
"I'm going north," I said. "I planned to go anyway
once my family was back on its feet. Now I have no
family, and I'm going."
"North where?" Zahra demanded.
I ate four of them. They were delicious, and too ripe
to travel well anyway.
"Why don't you try on some of those clothes," I said.
"Take what fits you."
She fit not only into Marcus's shirt and jeans--
though she had to roll the jeans legs up-- but into his
shoes. Shoes are expensive. Now she has two pair.
"You let me do it, I'll trade these little shoes for some
food," she said.
I nodded. "Tomorrow. Whatever you get, we'll split it.
Then I'm leaving."
"Going north?"
"Yes."
"Just north. Do you know anything about the roads
and towns and where to buy stuff or steal it? Have
you got money?"
"I have maps," I said. "They're old, but I think they're
still good. No one's been building new roads lately."
"Hell no. Money?"
"A little. Not enough, I suspect."
"No such thing as enough money. What about him?"
She gestured toward Harry's unmoving back. He
was lying down. I couldn't tell whether he was asleep
or not.
"He has to decide for himself," I said. "Maybe he
wants to hang around to look for his family before he
goes."
He turned over slowly. He looked sick, but fully
aware. Zahra put the peaches she had saved for
him next to him.
"I don't want to wait for anything," he said. "I wish we
could start now. I hate this place."
"You going with her?" Zahra asked, jabbing a thumb
at me.
He looked at me. "We might be able to help each
other," he said. "At least we know each other, and. .
.I managed to grab a few hundred dollars as I ran
out of the house." He was offering trust. He meant
we could trust each other. That was no small thing.
"I was thinking of traveling as a man," I said to him.
He seemed to be repressing a smile. "That will be
safer for you. You're at least tall enough to fool
people. You'll have to cut your hair, though."
Zahra grunted. "Mixed couples catch hell whether
people think they're gay or straight. Harry'll piss off
all the blacks and you'll piss off all the whites. Good
luck."
I watched her as she said it, and realized what she
wasn't saying. "You want to come?" I asked.
She sniffed. "Why should I? I won't cut my hair!"
"No need," I said. "We can be a black couple and
their white friend. If Harry can get a reasonable tan,
maybe we can claim him as a cousin."
She hesitated, then whispered, "Yeah, I want to go."
And she started to cry. Harry stared at her in
surprise.
"Did you think we were going to just dump you?" I
asked, "All you had to do was let us know."
"I don't have any money," she said. "Not a dollar."
I sighed. "Where did you get those peaches."
"You were right. I stole them."
"You have a useful skill, then, and information about
living out here." I faced Harry. "What do you think?"
"Her stealing doesn't bother you?" he asked
"I mean to survive," I said.
"`Thou shalt not steal,'" he quoted. "Years and
years-- a lifetime of `Thou shalt not steal.'"
I had to smother a flash of anger before I could
answer. He wasn't my father. He had no business
quoting scripture at me. He was nobody. I didn't look
at him. I didn't speak until I knew my voice would
sound normal. Then, "I said I mean to survive," I told
him. "Don't you?"
He nodded. "It wasn't a criticism. I'm just surprised."
"I hope it won't ever mean getting caught or leaving
someone else to starve," I said. And to my own
surprise, I smiled. "I've thought about it. That's the
way I feel, but I've never stolen anything."
"You're kidding!" Zahra said.
I shrugged. "It's true. I grew up trying to set a good
example for my brothers and trying to live up to my
father's expectations. That seemed like what I
should be doing."
"Oldest kid," Harry said. "I know." He was the oldest
in his family.
"Oldest, hell," Zahra said, laughing. "You're both
babies out here."
And that wasn't offensive, somehow. Perhaps
because it was true. "I'm inexperienced," I admitted.
"But I can learn. You're going to be one of my
teachers."
"One?" she said. "Who have you got but me?"
"Everyone."
She looked scornful. "No one."
"Everyone who's surviving out here knows things
that I need to know," I said. "I'll watch them, I'll listen
to them, I'll learn from them. If I don't, I'll be killed.
And like I said, I intend to survive."
"They'll sell you a bowl of shit," she said.
I nodded. "I know. But I'll buy as few of those as
possible."
She looked at me for a long time, then sighed. "I
wish I'd known you better before all this happened,"
she said. "You're a weird preacher's kid. If you still
want to play man, I'll cut your hair for you."
I took my many purchases out to what was once the
ground floor of a parking structure, and was now a
kind of semi-enclosed flea market. Many of the
things dug out of ash heaps and landfills wind up for
sale here. The rule is that if you buy something in
the store, you can sell something of similar value in
the structure. Your receipt, coded and dated, is your
peddler's license.
The structure was patrolled, though more to check
these licenses than to keep anyone safe. Still, the
structure was safer than the street.
I found Harry and Zahra sitting on our bundles, Harry
waiting to go into the store, and Zahra waiting for her
license. They had put their backs against a wall of
the store at a spot away from the street and away
from the biggest crowd of buyers and sellers. I gave
Zahra the receipt and began to separate and pack
our new supplies. We would leave as soon as Zahra
and Harry finished their buying and selling.
We walked down to the freeway-- the 118-- and
turned west. We would take the 118 to the 23 and
the 23 to U.S. 101. The 101 would take us up the
coast toward Oregon. We became part of a broad
river of people walking west on the freeway. Only a
few straggled east against the current-- east toward
the mountains and the desert. Where were the
westward walkers going? To something, or just away
from here?
We saw a few trucks-- most of them run at night--
swarms of bikes or electric cycles, and two cars. All
these had plenty of room to speed along the outer
lanes past us. We're safer if we keep to the left lanes
away from the on and off ramps. It's against the law
in California to walk on the freeways, but the law is
archaic. Everyone who walks walks on the freeways
sooner or later. Freeways provide the most direct
routes between cities and parts of cities. Dad walked
or bicycled on them often. Some prostitutes and
peddlers of food, water, and other necessities live
along the freeways in sheds or shacks or in the open
air. Beggars, thieves, and murderers live here, too.
But I've never walked a freeway before today. I
found the experience both fascinating and
frightening. In some ways, the scene reminded me
of an old film I saw once of a street in
mid-twentieth-century China-- walkers, bicyclers,
people carrying, pulling, pushing loads of all kinds.
But the freeway crowd is a heterogeneous mass--
black and white, Asian and Latin, whole families are
on the move with babies on backs or perched atop
loads in carts, wagons or bicycle baskets,
sometimes along with an old or handicapped person.
Other old, ill, or handicapped people hobbled along
as best they could with the help of sticks or fitter
companions. Many were armed with sheathed
knives, rifles, and, of course, visible, holstered
handguns. The occasional passing cop paid no
attention.
Children cried, played, squatted, did everything
except eat. Almost no one ate while walking. I saw a
couple of people drink from canteens. They took
quick, furtive gulps, as though they were doing
something shameful-- or something dangerous.
A woman alongside us collapsed. I got no
impression of pain from her, except at the sudden
impact of her body weight on her knees. That made
me stumble, but not fall. The woman sat where she
had fallen for a few seconds, then lurched to her feet
and began walking again, leaning forward under her
huge pack.
Almost everyone was filthy. Their bags and bundles
and packs were filthy. They stank. And we, who
have slept on concrete in ashes and dirt, and who
have not bathed for three days-- we fitted in pretty
well. Only our new sleepsack packs gave us away
as either new to the road or at least in possession of
new stealables. We should have dirtied the packs a
little before we got started. We will dirty them tonight.
I'll see to it.
There were a few young guys around, lean and
quick, some filthy, some not dirty at all. Keiths.
Today's Keiths. The ones who bothered me most
weren't carrying much. Some weren't carrying
anything except weapons.
Predators. They looked around a lot, stared at
people, and the people looked away. I looked away.
I was glad to see that Harry and Zahra did the same.
We didn't need trouble. If trouble came, I hoped we
could kill it and keep walking.
The gun was fully loaded now, and I wore it
holstered, but half covered by my shirt. Harry bought
himself a knife. The money he had snatched up as
he ran from his burning house had not been enough
to buy a gun. I could have bought a second gun, but
it would have taken too much of my money, and we
have a long way to go.
Zahra used the shoe money to buy herself a knife
and a few personal things. I had refused my share of
that money. She needed a few dollars in her pocket.
16
Earthseed
Cast on new ground
Must first perceive
That it knows nothing.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
MONDAY, AUGUST 2, 2027
(cont. from notes expanded
AUGUST 8)
Here are some of the things I've learned today:
Walking hurts. I've never done enough walking to
learn that before, but I know it now. It isn't only the
blisters and sore feet, although we've got those.
After a while, everything hurts. I think my back and
shoulders would like to desert to another body.
Nothing eases the pain except rest. Even though we
got a late start, we stopped twice today to rest. We
went off the freeway, into hills or bushes to sit down,
drink water, eat dried fruit and nuts. Then we went
on. The days are long this time of year.
Sucking on a plum or apricot pit all day makes you
feel less thirsty. Zahra told us that.
"When I was a kid," she said, "there were times
when I would put a little rock in my mouth. Anything
to feel better. It's a cheat, though. If you don't drink
enough water, you'll die no matter how you feel."
All three of us walked along with seeds in our
mouths after our first stop, and we felt better. We
drank only during our stops in the hills. It's safer that
way.
Also, cold camps are safer than cheery campfires.
Yet tonight we cleared some ground, dug into a
hillside, and made a small fire in the hollow. There
we cooked some of my acorn meal with nuts and
fruit. It was wonderful. Soon we'll run out of it and
we'll have to survive on beans, cornmeal, oats--
expensive stuff from stores. Acorns are home-food,
and home is gone.
Fires are illegal. You can see them flickering all over
the hills, but they are illegal. Everything is so so dry
that there's always a danger of campfires getting
away from people and taking out a community or
two. It does happen. But people who have no homes
will build fires. Even people like us who know what
fire can do will build them. They give comfort, hot
food, and a false sense of security.
While we were eating, and even after we'd finished,
people drifted over and tried to join us. Most were
harmless and easily gotten rid of. Three claimed
they just wanted to get warm. The sun was still up,
red on the horizon, and it was far from cold.
Three women wanted to know whether two studs
like Harry and me didn't need more than one
woman. The women who asked this may have been
cold, considering how few clothes they had on. It's
going to be strange for me, pretending to be a man.
"Couldn't I just roast this potato in your coals?" and
old man asked, showing us a withered potato.
We gave him some fire and sent him away-- and
watched to see where he went, since a burning
brand could be either a weapon or a major
distraction if he had friends hiding. It's crazy to live
this way, suspecting helpless old people. Insane.
But we need our paranoia to keep us alive. Hell,
Harry wanted to let the old guy sit with us. It took
Zahra and me together to let him know that wasn't
going to happen. Harry and I have been well-fed and
protected all our lives. We're strong and healthy and
better educated than most people our age. But we're
stupid out here. We want to trust people. I fight
against the impulse. Harry hasn't learned to do that
yet. We argued about it afterward, low voiced,
almost whispering.
"Nobody's safe, " Zahra told him. No matter how
pitiful they look, they can steal you naked. Little kids,
skinny and big-eyed will make off with all your
money, water, and food! I know. I used to do it to
people. Maybe they died, I don't know. But I didn't
die."
Harry and I both stared at her. We knew so little
about her life. But to me, at that moment, Harry was
our most dangerous question mark.
"You're strong and confident," I said to him. "You
think you can take care of yourself out here, and
maybe you can. But think what a stab wound or a
broken bone would mean out here: Disablement,
slow death from infection or starvation, no medical
care, nothing."
He looked at me as though he wasn't sure he
wanted to know me anymore. "What, then?" he
asked. "Everyone's guilty until proven innocent?
Guilty of what? And how do they prove themselves
to you?"
"I don't give a piss whether they're innocent or not,"
Zahra said. "Let them tend to their own business."
"Harry, your mind is still back in the neighborhood," I
said. "You still think a mistake is when your father
yells at you or you break a finger or chip a tooth or
something. Out here a mistake-- one mistake-- and
you may be dead. Remember that guy today? What
if that happened to us?"
We had seen a man robbed-- a chubby guy of 35 or
40 who was walking along eating nuts out of a paper
bag. Not smart. A little kid of 12 or 13 snatched the
nuts and ran off with them. While the victim was
distracted by the little kid, two bigger kids tripped
him, cut his pack straps, dragged the pack off his
back, and ran off with it. The whole thing happened
so fast that no one could have interfered if they'd
wanted to. No one tried. The victim was unhurt
except for bruises and abrasions-- the sort of thing I
had to put up with every day back in the
neighborhood. But the victim's supplies were gone. If
he had a home nearby and other supplies, he would
be all right. Otherwise, his only way of surviving
might be to rob someone else-- if he could.
"Remember?" I asked Harry. "We don't have to hurt
anyone unless they push us into it, but we don't dare
let our guard down. We can't trust people."
Harry shook his head. "What if I thought that way
when I pulled that guy off Zahra?"
I held on to my temper. "Harry, you know I don't
mean we shouldn't trust or help each other. We
know each other. We've made a commitment to
travel together."
"I'm not sure we do know each other."
"I am. And we can't afford your denial. You can't
afford it."
He just stared at me.
"Out here, you adapt to your surroundings or you get
killed," I said. "That's obvious!"
Now he did look at me as though I were a stranger. I
looked back, hoping I knew him as well as I thought I
did. He had a brain and he had courage. He just
didn't want to change .
"Do you want to break off with us," Zahra asked, "go
your own way without us?"
His gaze softened as he looked at her. "No," he said.
"Of course not. But we don't have to turn into
animals, for godsake."
"In a way, we do," I said. "We're a pack, the three of
us, and all those other people out there aren't in it. If
we're a good pack, and we work together, we have a
chance. You can be sure we aren't the only pack out
here."
He leaned back against a rock, and said with
amazement, "You damn sure talk macho enough to
be a guy."
I almost hit him. Maybe Zahra and I would be better
off without him. But no, that wasn't true. Numbers
mattered. Friendship mattered. One real male
presence mattered.
"Don't repeat that," I whispered, leaning close to
him. "Never say that again. There are other people
all over these hills; you don't know who's listening.
You give me away and you weaken yourself!"
That reached him. "Sorry," he said.
"It's bad out here," Zahra said. "But most people
make it if they're careful. People weaker than us
make it-- if they're careful."
Harry gave a wan smile. "I hate this world already,"
he said.
"It's not so bad if people stick together."
He looked from her to me and back to her again. He
smiled at her and nodded. It occurred to me then
that he liked her, was attracted to her. That could be
a problem for her later. She was a beautiful woman,
and I would never be beautiful-- which didn't bother
me. Boys had always seemed to like me. But
Zahra's looks grabbed male attention. If she and
Harry get together, she could wind up carrying two
heavy loads northward.
I was lost in thought about the two of them when
Zahra nudged me with her foot.
Two big, dirty-looking guys were standing nearby,
watching us, watching Zahra in particular.
I stood up, feeling the others stand with me, flanking
me. These guys were too close to us. They meant to
be too close. As I stood up, I put my hand on the
gun.
"Yeah?" I said, "What do you want?"
"Not a thing," one of them said, smiling at Zahra.
Both wore big holstered knives which they fingered.
I drew the gun. "Good deal," I said.
Their smiles vanished. "What, you going to shoot us
for standing here?" the talkative one said.
I thumbed the safety. I would shoot the talker, the
leader. The other one would run away. He already
wanted to run away. He was staring, open-mouthed,
at the gun. By the time I collapsed, he would be
gone.
"Hey, no trouble!" the talker raised his hands,
backing away. "Take it easy, man."
I let them go. I think it would have been better to
shoot them. I'm afraid of guys like that-- guys looking
for trouble, looking for victims. But it seems I can't
quite shoot someone just because I'm afraid of him. I
killed a man on the night of the fire, and I haven't
thought much about it. But this was different. It was
like what Harry said about stealing. I've heard, "Thou
shalt not kill," all my life, but when you have to, you
kill. I wonder what Dad would say about that. But
then, he was the one who taught me to shoot.
"We'd better keep a damn good watch tonight," I
said. I looked at Harry, and was glad to see that he
looked the way I probably had a moment before:
mad and worried. "Let's pass your watch and my
gun around," I told him. "Three hours per watcher."
"You know I'll take care of it," I told him.
He nodded. "You be careful," he said, and closed his
eyes.
I put the watch on, pulled the elastic of my sleeve
down over it so that the glow of the dial wouldn't be
visible by accident, and sat back against the hill to
make a few quick notes. While there was still some
natural light, I could write and watch.
Zahra watched me for a while, then laid her hand on
my arm. "Teach me to do that," she whispered.
I looked at her, not understanding,
"Teach me to read and write."
I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. Where, in
a life like hers, had there been time or money for
school. And once Richard Moss bought her, her
jealous co-wives wouldn't have taught her.
"You should have come to us back in the
neighborhood," I said. "We would have set up
lessons for you."
"Richard wouldn't let me. He said I already knew
enough to suit him."
I groaned. "I'll teach you. We can start tomorrow
morning if you want."
"Okay." She gave me an odd smile and began
ordering her bag and her few possessions, bundled
in my scavenged pillowcase. She lay down in her
bag and turned on her side to look at me. "I didn't
think I'd like you," she said. "Preacher's kid, all over
the place, teaching, telling everybody what to do,
sticking your damn nose in everything. But you ain't
bad."
I went from surprise into amusement of my own.
"Neither are you," I said.
"You didn't like me either?" Her turn to be surprised.
"You were the best looking woman in the
neighborhood. No, I wasn't crazy about you. And
remember a couple of years ago when you tried your
hardest to make me throw up while I was learning to
clean and skin rabbits."
"Why'd you want to learn that, anyway?" she asked.
"Blood, guts, worms. . . . I just figured, `There she
goes again, sticking her nose where it don't belong.
Well, let her have it!"'
"I wanted to know that I could do that-- handle a
dead animal, skin it, butcher it, treat its hide to make
leather. I wanted to know how to do it, and that I
could do it without getting sick."
"Why?"
"Because I thought someday I might have to. And
we might out here. Same reason I put together an
emergency pack and kept it where I could grab it."
"I wondered about that-- about you having all that
stuff from home, I mean. At first I thought maybe you
got it all when you went back. But no, you were
ready for all the trouble. You saw it coming."
"No." I shook my head, remembering. "No one could
have been ready for that. But. . . . I thought
something would happen someday. I didn't know
how bad it would be or when it would come. But
everything was getting worse: the climate, the
economy, crime, drugs, you know. I didn't believe we
would be allowed to sit behind our walls, looking
clean and fat and rich to the hungry, thirsty,
homeless, jobless, filthy people outside."
She turned again and lay on her back, staring
upward at the stars. "I should have seen some of
that stuff," she said. "But I didn't. Those big walls.
And everybody had a gun. There were guards every
night. I thought. . . . I thought we were so strong."
I put my notebook and pen down, sat on my
sleepsack, and put my own pillowcased bundle
behind me. Mine was lumpy and uncomfortable to
lean on. I wanted it uncomfortable. I was tired.
Everything ached. Given a little comfort, I would fall
asleep.
The sun was down now, and our fire had gone out
except for a few glowing coals. I drew the gun and
held it in my lap. If I needed it at all, I would need it
fast. We weren't strong enough to survive slowness
or stupid mistakes.
I sat where I was for three weary, terrifying hours.
Nothing happened to me, but I could see and hear
things happening. There were people moving
around the hills, sometimes silhouetting themselves
against the sky as they ran or walked over the tops
of hills. I saw groups and individuals. Twice I saw
dogs, distant, but alarming. I heard a lot of gunfire--
individual shots and short bursts of automatic
weapons fire. That last and the dogs worried me,
scared me. A pistol would be no protection against a
machine gun or automatic rifle. And dogs might not
know enough to be afraid of guns. Would a pack
keep coming if I shot two or three of its members? I
sat in a cold sweat, longing for walls-- or at least for
another magazine or two for the gun.
It was nearly midnight when I woke Harry, gave him
the gun and the watch, and made him as
uncomfortable as I could by warning him about the
dogs, the gunfire, and the many people who
wandered around at night. He did look awake and
alert enough when I lay down.
I fell asleep at once. Aching and exhausted, I found
the hard ground as welcoming as my bed at home.
A shout awoke me. Then I heard gunfire-- several
single shots, thunderous and nearby. Harry?
Something fell across me before I could get out of
my sleepsack-- something big and heavy. It knocked
the breath out of me. I struggled to get it off me,
knowing that it was a human body, dead or
unconscious. As I pushed at it and felt its heavy
beard stubble and long hair, I realized it was a man,
and not Harry. Some stranger.
I heard scrambling and thrashing near me. There
were grunts and sounds of blows. A fight. I could
see them in the darkness-- two figures struggling on
the ground. The one on the bottom was Harry.
He was fighting someone over the gun, and he was
losing. The muzzle was being forced toward him.
That couldn't happen. We couldn't lose the gun or
Harry. I took a small granite boulder from our fire pit,
set my teeth,and brought it down with all my strength
on the back of the intruder's head. And I brought
myself down.
It wasn't the worst pain I had ever shared, but it
came close. I was worthless after delivering that one
blow. I think I was unconscious for a while.
Then Zahra appeared from somewhere, feeling me,
trying to see me. She wouldn't find a wound, of
course.
I sat up, fending her off, and saw that Harry was
there too.
"Are they dead?" I asked.
"Never mind them," he said. "Are you all right?"
I got up, swaying from the residual shock of the
blow. I felt sick and dizzy, and my head hurt. A few
days before, Harry had made me feel that way and
we'd both recovered. Did that mean the man I'd hit
would recover?
I checked him. He was still alive, unconscious, not
feeling any pain now. What I was feeling was my
own reaction to the blow I'd struck.
"The other one's dead," Harry said. "This one. . . .
Well, you caved in the back of his head. I don't know
why he's still alive."
"Oh, no," I whispered. "Oh hell." And then to Harry.
"Give me the gun."
"Why?" he asked.
My fingers had found the blood and broken skull,
soft and pulpy at the back of the stranger's head.
Harry was right. He should have been dead.
"Give me the gun." I repeated, and held out a bloody
hand for it. "Unless you want to do this yourself."
"You can't shoot him. You can't just. . . ."
"I hope you'd find the courage to shoot me if I were
like that, and out here with no medical care to be
had. We shoot him, or leave him here alive. How
long do you think it will take him to die?"
"Maybe he won't die."
I went to my pack, struggling to navigate without
throwing up. I pulled it away from the dead man,
groped within it, and found my knife. It was a good
knife, sharp and strong. I flicked it open and cut the
unconscious man's throat with it.
Not until the flow of blood stopped did I feel safe.
The man's heart had pumped his life away into the
ground. He could not regain consciousness and
involve me in his agony.
But, of course, I was far from safe. Perhaps the last
two people from my old life were about to leave me. I
had shocked and horrified them. I wouldn't blame
them for leaving.
"Strip the bodies," I said. "Take what they have, then
we'll put them into the scrub oaks down the hill
where we gathered wood."
I searched the man I had killed, found a small
amount of money in his pants pocket and a larger
amount in his right sock. Matches, a packet of
almonds, a packet of dried meat, and a packet of
small, round, purple pills. I found no knife, no
weapon of any kind. So this was not one of the pair
that sized us up earlier in the night. I hadn't thought
so. Neither of them had been long-haired. Both of
these were.
I put the pills back in the pocket I had taken them
from. Everything else, I kept. The money would help
sustain us. The food might or might or might not be
edible. I would decide that when I could see it
clearly.
"No," I said. "I don't get the damage. Just the pain."
"But, I mean it felt like you hit yourself?"
I nodded. "Close enough. When I was little, I used to
bleed along with people if I hurt them or even if I saw
them hurt. I haven't done that for a few years."
"But if they're unconscious or dead, you don't feel
anything."
"That's right."
"So that's why you killed that guy?"
"I killed him because he was a threat to us. To me in
a special way, but to you too. What could we have
done about him? Abandon him to the flies, the ants,
and the dogs? You might have been willing to do
that, but would Harry? Could we stay with him? For
how long? To what purpose? Or would we dare to
hunt up a cop and try to report seeing a guy hurt
without involving ourselves. Cops are not trusting
people. I think they would want to check us out,
hang on to us for a while, maybe charge us with
attacking the guy and killing his friend. I turned to
look at Harry who had not said a word. "What would
you have done?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said, his voice hard with
disapproval. "I only know I wouldn't have done what
you did."
"I wouldn't have asked you to do it," I said. "I didn't
ask you. But, Harry, I would do it again. I might have
to do it again. That's why I'm telling you this." I
glanced at Zahra. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I
knew I should, but talking about it is. . .hard. Very
hard. I've never told anyone before. Now. . . ." I took
a deep breath. "Now everything's up to you."
"What do you mean?" Harry demanded.
I looked at him, wishing I could see his expression
well enough to know whether this was a real
question. I didn't think it was. I decided to ignore
him.
"So what do you think?" I asked, looking at Zahra.
Neither of them said anything for a minute. Then
Zahra began to speak, began to say such terrible
things in that soft voice of hers. After a moment, I
wasn't sure she was talking to us.
I took his hands, looked at their big, pale, blunt
fingers. They had a lot of strength in them, I knew,
but I had never seen him use it to bully anyone. He
was worth some trouble, Harry was.
"No one is who we think they are," I said. "That's
what we get for not being telepathic. But you've
trusted me so far-- and I've trusted you. I've just put
my life in your hands. What are you going to do?"
Was he going to abandon me now to my "infirmity"--
instead of me maybe abandoning him at some future
time due to a theoretical broken arm. And I thought:
One oldest kid to another, Harry; would that be
responsible behavior?
He took his hands back. "Well, I did know you were
a manipulative bitch," he said.
Zahra smothered a laugh. I was surprised. I'd never
heard him use the word before. I heard it now as a
sound of frustration. He wasn't going to leave. He
was a last bit of home that I didn't have to give up
yet. How did he feel about that? Was he angry with
me for almost breaking up the group? He had
reason to be, I suppose.
"I don't understand how you could have been like
this all the time," he said. "How could you hide your
sharing from everyone?"
"My father taught me to hide it," I told him. "He was
right. In this world, there isn't any room for
housebound, frightened, squeamish people, and
that's what I might have become if everyone had
known about me-- all the other kids, for instance.
Little kids are vicious. Haven't you noticed?"
"But your brothers must have known."
"My father put the fear of God into them about it. He
could do that. As far as I know, they never told
anyone. Keith used to play `funny' tricks on me,
though."
"So. . .you faked everyone out. You must be a hell of
an actor."
"I had to learn to pretend to be normal. My father
kept trying to convince me that I was normal. He was
wrong about that, but I'm glad he taught me the way
he did."
"Maybe you are normal. I mean if the pain isn't real,
then maybe-- "
"Maybe this sharing thing is all in my head? Of
course it is! And I can't get it out. Believe me, I'd love
to."
17
Embrace diversity.
Unite--
Or be divided,
robbed,
ruled,
killed
By those who see you as prey.
Embrace diversity
Or be destroyed.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 2027
(from notes expanded AUGUST 8)
There's a big fire in the hills to the east of us. We
saw it begin as a thin, dark column of smoke, rising
into an otherwise clear sky. Now it's massive-- a
hillside or two? Several buildings? Many houses?
Our neighborhood again?
We kept looking at it, then looking away. Other
people dying, losing their families, their homes. . . .
Even when we had walked past it, we looked back.
Had the people with painted faces done this, too?
Zahra was crying as she walked along, cursing in a
voice so soft that I could hear only a few of the bitter
words.
Earlier today we left the 118 freeway to look for and
finally connect with the 23. Now we're on the 23 with
charred overgrown wilderness on one side and
neighborhoods on the other. We can't see the fire
itself now. We've passed it, come a long way from it,
put hills between it and us as we head southward
toward the coast. But we can still see the smoke. We
didn't stop for the night until it was almost dark and
we were all tired and hungry.
We've camped away from the freeway on the
wilderness side of it, out of sight, but not out of
hearing of the shuffling hoards of people on the
move. I think that's a sound we'll hear for the whole
of our journey whether we stop in Northern California
or go through to Canada. So many people hoping for
so much up where it still rains every year, and an
uneducated person might still get a job that pays in
money instead of beans, water, potatoes, and
maybe a floor to sleep on.
But it's the fire that holds our attention. Maybe it was
started by accident. Maybe not. But still, people are
losing what they may not be able to replace. Even if
they survive, insurance isn't worth much these days.
People on the highway, shadowy in the darkness,
had begun to reverse the flow, to drift northward to
find a way to the fire. Best to be early for the
scavenging.
"Should we go?" Zahra asked, her mouth full of dried
meat. We built no fire tonight. Best for us to vanish
into the darkness and avoid guests. We had put a
tangle of trees and bushes at our backs and hoped
for the best.
"You mean go back and rob those people?" Harry
demanded.
On the other hand, my Earthseed verses had
surprised him, and, I think, pleased him a little. I
wasn't sure whether he liked the writing or the
reasoning, but he liked having something to read
and talk about.
"Poetry?" he said this morning as he looked through
the pages I showed him-- pages of my Earthseed
notebook, as it happened. "I never knew you cared
about poetry."
"A lot of it isn't very poetical," I said. "But it's what I
believe, and I've written it as well as I could." I
showed him four verses in all-- gentle, brief verses
that might take hold of him without his realizing it
and live in his memory without his intending that they
should. Bits of the Bible had done that to me, staying
with me even after I stopped believing.
I gave to Harry, and through him to Zahra, thoughts I
wanted them to keep. But I couldn't prevent Harry
from keeping other things as well: His new distrust of
me, for instance, almost his new dislike. I was not
quite Lauren Olamina to him any longer. I had seen
that in his expression off and on all day. Odd.
Joanne hadn't liked her glimpse of the real me
either. On the other hand, Zahra didn't seem to
mind. But then, she hadn't known me very well at
home. What she learned now, she could accept
without feeling lied to. Harry did feel lied to, and
perhaps he wondered what lies I was still telling or
living. Only time could heal that-- if he let it.
We moved when he came back. He had found us a
new campsite, near the freeway and yet private. One
of the huge freeway signs had fallen or been
knocked down, and now lay on the ground, propped
up by a pair of dead sycamore trees. With the trees,
it formed a massive lean-to. The rock and ash
leavings of a campfire showed us that the place had
been used before. Perhaps there had been people
here tonight, but they had gone away to see what
they could scavenge from the fire. Now we're here,
happy to get a little privacy, a view of the hills back
where the fire is, and the security, for what it was
worth, of at least one wall.
"Good deal!" Zahra said, unrolling her sleepsack and
settling down on top of it. "I'll take the first watch
tonight, okay?"
It was okay with me. I gave her the gun and lay
down, eager for sleep. Again I was amazed to find
so much comfort in sleeping on the ground in my
clothes. There's no narcotic like exhaustion.
Sometime in the night I woke up to soft, small
sounds of voices and breathing. Zahra and Harry
were making love. I turned my head and saw them
at it, though they were too much involved with each
other to notice me.
And, of course, no one was on watch.
I got caught up in their lovemaking, and had all I
could do to lie still and keep quiet. I couldn't escape
their sensation. I couldn't keep an efficient watch. I
could either writhe with them or hold myself rigid. I
held rigid until they finished-- until Harry kissed
Zahra, then got up to put his pants on and began his
watch.
And I lay awake afterward, angry and worried. How
in hell could I talk to either of them about this? It
would be none of my business except for the time
they chose for doing it. But look when that was! We
could all have been killed.
Still sitting up, Harry began to snore.
I listened for a couple of minutes, then sat up,
reached over Zahra, and shook him.
He jumped awake, stared around, then turned
toward me. I couldn't see more than a moving
silhouette.
"Give me the gun and go back to sleep," I said.
He just sat there.
"Harry, you'll get us killed. Give me the gun and the
watch and lie down. I'll wake you later."
He looked at the watch.
"Sorry," he said. "Guess I was more tired than I
thought." His voice grew less sleep-fogged. "I'm all
right. I'm awake. Go back to sleep."
His pride had kicked in. It would be almost
impossible to get the gun and the watch from him
now.
I lay down. "Remember last night," I said. "If you
care about her at all, if you want her to live,
remember last night."
He didn't answer. I hoped I had surprised him. I
supposed I had also embarrassed him. And maybe I
had made him feel angry and defensive. Whatever
I'd done, I didn't hear him doing any more snoring.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4, 2027
Today we stopped at a commercial water station and
filled ourselves and all our containers with clean,
safe water. Commercial stations are best for that.
Anything you buy from a water peddler on the
freeway ought to be boiled, and still might not be
safe. Boiling kills disease organisms, but may do
nothing to get rid of chemical residue-- fuel,
pesticide, herbicide, whatever else has been in the
bottles that peddlers use. The fact that most
peddlers can't read makes the situation worse. They
sometimes poison themselves.
Commercial stations let you draw whatever you pay
for-- and not a drop more-- right out of one of their
taps. You drink whatever the local householders are
drinking. It might taste, smell, or look bad, but you
can depend on it not to kill you.
There aren't enough water stations. That's why
water peddlers exist. Also, water stations are
dangerous places. People going in have money.
People coming out have water, which is as good as
money. Beggars and thieves hang around such
places-- keeping the whores and drug dealers
company. Dad warned us all about water stations,
trying to prepare us in case we ever went out and
got caught far enough from home to be tempted to
stop for water. His advice: "Don't do it. Suffer. Get
your rear end home."
Yeah.
Three is the smallest comfortable number at a water
station. Two to watch and one to fill up. And it's good
to have three ready for trouble on the way to and
from the station. Three would not stop determined
thugs, but it would stop opportunists-- and most
predators are opportunists. They prey on old people,
lone women or women with young kids,
handicapped people. . . . They don't want to get hurt.
My father used to call them coyotes. When he was
being polite, he called them coyotes.
We were coming away with our water when we saw
a pair of two-legged coyotes grab a bottle of water
from a woman who was carrying a sizable pack and
a baby. The man with her grabbed the coyote who
had taken the water, the coyote passed the water to
his partner, and his partner ran straight into us.
I tripped him. I think it was the baby who attracted
my attention, my sympathy. The tough plastic bubble
that held the water didn't break. The coyote didn't
break either. I set my teeth, sharing the jolt as he fell
and the pain of his scraped forearms. Back home,
the younger kids hit me with that kind of thing every
day.
I stepped back from the coyote and put my hand on
the gun. Harry stepped up beside me. I was glad to
have him there. We looked more intimidating
together.
The husband of the woman had thrown off his
attacker, and the two coyotes, finding themselves
outnumbered, scampered away. Skinny, scared little
bastards out to do their daily stealing.
I picked up the plastic bubble of water and handed it
to the man.
He took it and said, "Thanks man. Thanks a lot."
I nodded and we went on our way. It still felt strange
to be called "man." I didn't like it, but that didn't
matter.
"All of a sudden you're a good Samaritan," Harry
said. But he didn't mind. There was no disapproval
in his voice.
"It was the baby, wasn't it?" Zahra asked.
"Yes," I admitted. "The family, really. All of them
together." All of them together. They had been a
black man, a Hispanic-looking woman, and a baby
who managed to look a little like both of them. In a
few more years, a lot of the families back in the
neighborhood would have looked like that. Hell,
Harry and Zahra were working on starting a family
like that. And as Zahra had once observed, mixed
couples catch hell out here.
Yet there were Harry and Zahra, walking so close
together that they couldn't help now and then
brushing against each other. But they kept alert,
looked around. We were on U.S. 101 now, and there
were even more walkers. Even clumsy thieves would
have no trouble losing themselves in this crowd.
But Zahra and I had had a talk this morning during
her reading lesson. We were supposed to be
working on the sounds of letters and the spelling of
simple words. But when Harry went off to the bushes
of our designated toilet area, I stopped the lesson.
"Remember what you said to me a couple of days
ago?" I asked her. "My mind was wandering and you
warned me. `People get killed on freeways all the
time,' you said."
To my surprise, she saw where I was headed at
once. "Damn you," she said, looking up from the
paper I had given her. "You don't sleep sound
enough, that's all." She smiled as she said it.
"You want privacy, I'll give it to you," I said. "Just let
me know, and I'll guard the camp from someplace a
short distance away. You two can do what you want.
But no more of this shit when you're on watch!"
She looked surprised. "Didn't think you said words
like that."
"And I didn't think you did things like last night.
Dumb!"
"I know. Fun, though. He's a big strong boy." She
paused. "You jealous?"
"Zahra!"
"Don't worry," she said. "Things took me by surprise
last night. I. . .I needed something, someone. It won't
be like that no more."
"Okay."
"You jealous?" she repeated.
I made myself smile. "I'm as human as you are," I
said. "But I don't think I would have yielded to
temptation out here with no prospects, no idea
what's going to happen. The thought of getting
pregnant would have stopped me cold."
"People have babies out here all the time." She
grinned at me. "What about you and that boyfriend
of yours."
"We were careful. We used condoms."
Zahra shrugged. "Well Harry and me didn't. If it
happens, it happens."
It had apparently happened to the couple whose
water we had saved. Now they had a baby to lug
north.
They stayed near us today, that couple. I saw them
every now and then. Tall, stocky, velvet-skinned,
deep-black man carrying a huge pack; short, pretty,
stocky, light-brown woman with baby and pack;
medium brown baby a few months old-- huge-eyed
baby with curly black hair.
They rested when we rested. They're camped now
not far behind us. They look more like potential allies
than potential dangers, but I'll keep an eye on them.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 2027
Late today we came within sight of the ocean. None
of us have ever seen it before, and we had to go
closer, look at it, camp within sight and sound and
smell of it. Once we had decided to do that, we
walked shoeless in the waves, pants legs rolled up.
Sometimes we just stood and stared at it: the Pacific
Ocean-- the largest, deepest body of water on earth,
almost half-a-world of water. Yet, as it was, we
couldn't drink any of it.
Harry stripped down to his underwear and waded
out until the cool water reached his chest. He can't
swim, of course. None of us can swim. We've never
before seen water enough to swim in. Zahra and I
watched Harry with a lot of concern. Neither of us
felt free to follow him. I'm supposed to be a man and
Zahra attracts enough of the wrong kind of attention
with all her clothes on. We decided to wait until after
sundown and go in fully clothed, just to wash away
some of the grime and stink. Then we could change
clothes. We both had soap and we were eager to
make use of it.
There were other people on the beach. In fact, the
narrow strip of sand was crowded with people,
though they managed to stay out of each others'
way. They had spread themselves out and seemed
far more tolerant of one another than they had
during our night in the hills. I didn't hear any shooting
or fighting. There were no dogs, no obvious thefts,
no rape. Perhaps the sea and the cool breeze lulled
them. Harry wasn't the only one to strip down and go
into the water. Quite a few women had gone out,
wearing almost nothing. Maybe this was a safer
place than any we'd seen so far.
Some people had tents, and several had built fires.
We settled in against the remnants of a small
building. We were always, it seemed, looking for
walls to shield us. Was it better to have them and
perhaps get trapped against them or to camp in the
open and be vulnerable on every side? We didn't
know. It just felt better to have at least one wall.
I salvaged a flat piece of wood from the building,
went a few yards closer to the ocean, and began to
dig into the sand. I dug until I found dampness. Then
I waited.
"What's supposed to happen?" Zahra asked. Until
now she had watched me without saying anything.
"Drinkable water," I told her. "According to a couple
of books I read, water is supposed to seep up
through the sand with most of the salt filtered out of
it."
She looked into the damp hole. "When?" she asked.
I dug a little more. "Give it time," I said. "If the trick
works, we ought to know about it. It might save our
lives someday."
"Or poison us or give us a disease," she said. She
looked up to see Harry coming toward us, dripping
wet. Even his hair was wet.
"He don't look bad naked," she said.
He was still wearing his underwear, of course, but I
could see what she meant. He had a nice,
strong-looking body, and I don't think he minded our
looking at it. And he looked clean and he didn't stink.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 5, 2027
Late today we came within sight of the ocean. None
of us have ever seen it before, and we had to go
closer, look at it, camp within sight and sound and
smell of it. Once we had decided to do that, we
walked shoeless in the waves, pants legs rolled up.
Sometimes we just stood and stared at it: the Pacific
Ocean-- the largest, deepest body of water on earth,
almost half-a-world of water. Yet, as it was, we
couldn't drink any of it.
Harry stripped down to his underwear and waded
out until the cool water reached his chest. He can't
swim, of course. None of us can swim. We've never
before seen water enough to swim in. Zahra and I
watched Harry with a lot of concern. Neither of us
felt free to follow him. I'm supposed to be a man and
Zahra attracts enough of the wrong kind of attention
with all her clothes on. We decided to wait until after
sundown and go in fully clothed, just to wash away
some of the grime and stink. Then we could change
clothes. We both had soap and we were eager to
make use of it.
There were other people on the beach. In fact, the
narrow strip of sand was crowded with people,
though they managed to stay out of each others'
way. They had spread themselves out and seemed
far more tolerant of one another than they had
during our night in the hills. I didn't hear any shooting
or fighting. There were no dogs, no obvious thefts,
no rape. Perhaps the sea and the cool breeze lulled
them. Harry wasn't the only one to strip down and go
into the water. Quite a few women had gone out,
wearing almost nothing. Maybe this was a safer
place than any we'd seen so far.
Some people had tents, and several had built fires.
We settled in against the remnants of a small
building. We were always, it seemed, looking for
walls to shield us. Was it better to have them and
perhaps get trapped against them or to camp in the
open and be vulnerable on every side? We didn't
know. It just felt better to have at least one wall.
I salvaged a flat piece of wood from the building,
went a few yards closer to the ocean, and began to
dig into the sand. I dug until I found dampness. Then
I waited.
"What's supposed to happen?" Zahra asked. Until
now she had watched me without saying anything.
"Drinkable water," I told her. "According to a couple
of books I read, water is supposed to seep up
through the sand with most of the salt filtered out of
it."
She looked into the damp hole. "When?" she asked.
I dug a little more. "Give it time," I said. "If the trick
works, we ought to know about it. It might save our
lives someday."
"Or poison us or give us a disease," she said. She
looked up to see Harry coming toward us, dripping
wet. Even his hair was wet.
"He don't look bad naked," she said.
He was still wearing his underwear, of course, but I
could see what she meant. He had a nice,
strong-looking body, and I don't think he minded our
looking at it. And he looked clean and he didn't stink.
"So do you mind?" I asked again.
They looked at each other.
"I don't mind," Zahra said. "Long as we keep an eye
on them."
"Why do you want them?" Harry asked, watching
me.
"They need us more than we need them," I said.
"That's not a reason."
"They're potential allies."
"We don't need allies."
"Not now. But we'd be damned fools to wait and try
to get them when we do need them. By then, they
might not be around."
He shrugged and sighed. "All right. Like Zahra says,
as long as we watch them."
I got up and went over to the couple. I could see
them straighten and go tense as I approached. I was
careful not to go too close or move too fast.
"Hello," I said. "If you two would like to take turns
bathing, you can come over and join us. That might
be safer for the baby."
"Join you?" the man said. "You're asking us to join
you?"
"Inviting you."
"Why?"
"Why not. We're natural allies-- the mixed couple
and the mixed group."
"Allies?" the man said, and he laughed.
I looked at him, wondering why he laughed.
"What the hell do you really want?" he demanded.
I sighed. "Come join us if you want to. You're
welcome, and in a pinch, five is better than two." I
turned and left them. Let them talk it over and
decide.
"They coming?" Zahra asked when I got back.
"I think so," I said. "Although maybe not tonight."
FRIDAY, AUGUST 6, 2027
We built a fire and had a hot meal last night, but the
mixed family did not join us. I didn't blame them.
People stay alive out here by being suspicious. But
they didn't go away either. And it was no accident
that they had chosen to stay near us. It was a good
thing for them that they were near us. The peaceful
beach scene changed late last night. Dogs came
onto the sand.
They came during my watch. I saw movement far
down the beach and I focused on it. Then there was
shouting, screams. I thought it was a fight or a
robbery. I didn't see the dogs until they broke away
from a group of humans and ran inland. One of them
was carrying something, but I couldn't tell what it
was. I watched them until they vanished inland.
People chased them for a short distance, but the
dogs were too fast. Someone's property was lost--
someone's food, no doubt.
I was on edge after that. I got up, moved to the
inland end of our wall, sat there where I could see
more of the beach. I was there, sitting still with the
gun in my lap then I spotted movement perhaps a
long city block up the beach. Dark forms against
pale sand. More dogs. Three of them. They nosed
around the sand for a moment, then headed our
way. I sat as still as I could, watching. So many
people slept without posting watches. The three
dogs wandered among the camps, investigating
what they pleased, and no one tried to drive them
away. On the other hand, people's oranges,
potatoes, and grain meal couldn't be very tempting
to a dog. Our small supply of dried meat might be
another matter. But no dog would get it.
But the dogs stopped at the camp of the mixed
couple. I remembered the baby and jumped up. At
the same moment, the baby began to cry. I shoved
Zahra with my foot and she came awake all at once.
She could to that.
"Dogs," I said. "Wake Harry." Then I headed for the
mixed couple. The woman was screaming and
beating at a dog with her hands. A second dog was
dodging the man's kicks and going for the baby.
Only the third dog was clear of the family.
I stopped, slipped the safety, and as the third dog
went in toward the baby, I shot it.
The dog dropped without a sound. I dropped, too,
gasping, feeling kicked in the chest. It surprised me
how hard the loose sand was to fall on.
At the crack of the shot, the other two dogs took off
inland. From my prone position, I sighted on them as
they ran. I might have been able to pick off one more
of them, but I let them go. I hurt enough already. I
couldn't catch my breath, it seemed. As I gasped,
though, it occurred to me that prone was a good
shooting position for me. Sharing would be less able
to incapacitate me at once if I shot two-handed and
prone. I filed the knowledge away for future use.
Also, it was interesting that the dogs had been
frightened by my shot. Was it the sound that scared
them or the fact that one of them had been hit? I
wish I knew more about them. I've read books about
them being intelligent, loyal pets, but that's all in the
past. Dogs now are wild animals who will eat a baby
if they can.
I felt that the dog I had shot was dead. It wasn't
moving. But by now a lot of people were awake and
moving around. A living dog, even wounded, would
be frantic to get away.
The pain in my chest began to ebb. When I could
breathe without gasping, I stood up and walked back
to our camp. There was so much confusion by then
that no one noticed me except Harry and Zahra.
Harry came out to meet me. He took the gun from
my hand, then took my arm and steered me back to
my sleepsack.
"So you hit something," he said as I sat gasping
again from the small exertion.
"Is your baby all right?" I asked.
"He had scratches and sand in his eyes and mouth
from being dragged." She stroked the sleeping
baby's black hair. "I put salve on the scratches and
washed his eyes. He's all right now. He's so good.
He only cried a little bit."
"Hardly ever cries," Travis said with quiet pride.
Travis has an unusual deep-black complexion-- skin
so smooth that I can't believe he has ever in his life
had a pimple. Looking at him makes me want to
touch him and see how all that perfect skin feels.
He's young, good looking, and intense-- a stocky,
muscular man, tall, but a little shorter and a little
heavier than Harry. Natividad is stocky, too-- a pale
brown woman with a round, pretty face long black
hair bound up in a coil atop her head. She's short,
but it isn't surprising somehow that she can carry a
pack and a baby and keep up a steady pace all day.
I like her, feel inclined to trust her. I'll have to be
careful about that. But I don't believe she would steal
from us. Travis has not accepted us yet, but she
has. We've helped her baby. We're her friends.
"We're going to Seattle," she told us. "Travis has an
aunt there. She says we can stay with her until we
find work. We want to find work that pays money."
"Don't we all," Zahra agreed. She sat on Harry's
sleepsack with him, his arm around her. Tonight
could be tiresome for me.
Travis and Natividad sat on their three sacks, spread
out to give their baby room to crawl when he woke
up. Natividad had harnessed him to her wrist with a
length of clothesline.
I felt alone between the two couples. I let them talk
about their hopes and rumors of northern edens. I
took out my notebook and began to write up the
day's events, still savoring the last of the chocolate.
The baby awoke hungry and crying. Natividad
opened her loose shirt, gave him a breast, and
moved over near me to see what I was doing.
"You can read and write," she said with surprise. "I
thought you might be drawing. What are you
writing?"
"She's always writing," Harry said. "Ask to read her
poetry. Some of it isn't bad."
I winced. My name is androgynous, in pronunciation
at least-- Lauren sounds like the more masculine
Loren. But pronouns are more specific, and still a
problem for Harry.
"She?" Travis asked right on cue. "Her?"
"Damn it, Harry," I said. "We forgot to buy that tape
for your mouth."
He shook his head, then gave me an embarrassed
smile. "I've known you all my life. It isn't easy to
remember to switch all your pronouns. I think it's all
right this time, though."
"I told you so!" Natividad said to her husband. Then
she looked embarrassed. "I told him you didn't look
like a man," she said to me. "You're tall and strong,
but. . .I don't know. You don't have a man's face."
I had, almost, a man's chest and hips, so maybe I
should be glad to hear that I didn't have a man's
face-- though it wasn't going to help me on the road.
"We believed two men and a woman would be more
likely to survive than two women and a man," I said.
"Out here, the trick is to avoid confrontation by
looking strong."
"The three of us aren't going to help you look
strong," Travis said. He sounded bitter. Did he
resent the baby and Natividad?
"You are our natural allies," I said. "You sneered at
that last time I said it, but it's true. The baby won't
weaken us much, I hope, and he'll have a better
chance of surviving with five adults around him."
"I can take care of my wife and my son," Travis said
with more pride than sense. I decided not to hear
him.
"I think you and Natividad will strengthen us," I said.
"Two more pairs of eyes, two more pairs of hands.
Do you have knives?"
"Yes." He patted his pants pocket. "I wish we had
guns like you."
I wished we had guns-- plural-- too. But I didn't say
so. "You and Natividad look strong and healthy," I
said. "Predators will look at a group like the five of us
and move on to easier prey."
Travis grunted, still noncommittal. Well, I had helped
him twice, and now I was a woman. It might take him
a while to forgive me for that, no matter how grateful
he was.
"I want to hear some of your poetry," Natividad said.
"The man we worked for, his wife used to write
poetry. She would read it to me sometimes when
she was feeling lonely. I liked it. Read me something
of yours before it gets too dark."
Odd to think of a rich woman reading to her maid--
which was who Natividad had been. Maybe I had the
wrong idea of rich women. But then, everyone gets
lonely. I put my journal down and picked up my book
of Earthseed verses. I chose soft, nonpreachy
verses, good for road-weary minds and bodies.
18
Once or twice
each week
A Gathering of Earthseed
is a good and necessary thing.
It vents emotion, then
quiets the mind.
It focuses attention,
strengthens purpose, and
unifies people.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SUNDAY, AUGUST 8, 2027
"You believe in all this Earthseed stuff, don't you?"
Travis asked me.
It was our day off, our day of rest. We had left the
highway to find a beach where we could camp for
the day and night and be comfortable. The Santa
Barbara beach we had found included a partly
burned park where there were trees and tables. It
wasn't crowded, and we could have a little daytime
privacy. The water was only a short walk away. The
two couples took turns disappearing while I watched
their packs and the baby. Interesting that the
Douglases were already comfortable trusting me
with all that was precious to them. We didn't trust
them to watch alone last night or the night before,
though we did make them watch. We had no walls to
put our backs against last night so it was useful to
have two watchers at a time. Natividad watched with
me and Travis watched with Harry. Finally, Zahra
watched alone.
I organized that, feeling that it was the schedule that
would be most comfortable to both couples. Neither
would be required to trust the other too much.
Now, amid the outdoor tables, firepits, pines, palms,
and sycamores, trust seems not to be a problem. If
you turn your back to the burned portion which is
barren and ugly, this is a beautiful place, and it's far
enough from the highway not to be found by the
ever-flowing river of people moving north. I found it
because I had maps-- in particular, a street map of
much of Santa Barbara County. My grandparents'
maps helped us explore away from the highway
even though many street signs were fallen or gone.
There were enough left for us to find beaches when
we were near them.
There were locals at this beach-- people who had
left real homes to spend an August day at the
beach. I eavesdropped on a few fragments of
conversation and found out that much.
Then I tried talking to some of them. To my surprise,
most were willing to talk. Yes, the park was beautiful
except where some painted fools had set fires. The
rumors were that they did it to fight for the poor, to
expose or destroy the goods hoarded by the rich.
But a park by the sea wasn't goods. It was open to
everyone. Why burn it? No one knew why.
No one knew where the fad of painting yourself and
getting high on drugs and fire had come from, either.
Most people suspected it had begun in Los Angeles
where, according to them, most stupid or wicked
things began. Local prejudice. I didn't tell any of
them I was from the L.A. area. I just smiled and
asked about the local job situation. Some people
said they knew where I could work to earn a meal or
a "safe" place to sleep, but no one knew where I
could earn money. That didn't mean there weren't
any such jobs, but if there were, they would be hard
to find and harder to qualify for. That's going to be a
problem wherever we go. And yet we know a lot, the
three of us, the five of us. We know how to do a
great many things. There must be a way to put it all
together and make us something other than
domestic servants working for room and board. We
make an interesting unit.
Water is very expensive here-- worse than in Los
Angeles or Ventura Counties. We all went to a water
station this morning. Still no freeway watersellers for
us.
On the road yesterday, we saw three dead men-- a
group together, young, unmarked, but covered with
the blood they had vomited, their bodies bloated and
beginning to stink. We passed them, looked at them,
took nothing from their bodies. Their packs-- if they'd
had any-- were already gone. Their clothes, we did
not want. And their canteens-- all three still had
canteens-- their canteens, no one wanted.
We all resupplied yesterday at a local Hanning Joss.
We were relieved and surprised to see it-- a good
dependable place where we could buy all we
needed from solid food for the baby to soap to
salves for skin chafed by salt water, sun, and
walking. Natividad bought new liners for her baby
carrier and washed and dried a plastic bag of filthy
old ones. Zahra went with her into the separate
laundry area of the store to wash and dry some of
our filthy clothing. We wore our sea-washed clothing,
salty, but not quite stinking. Paying to wash clothes
was a luxury we could not often afford, yet none of
us found it easy to be filthy. We weren't used to it.
We were all hoping for cheaper water in the north. I
even bought a second clip for the gun-- plus solvent,
oil, and brushes to clean the gun. It had bothered
me, not being able to clean it before. If the gun failed
us when we needed it, we could be killed. The new
clip was a comfort, too. It gave us a chance to reload
fast and keep shooting.
Now we lounged in the shade of pines and
sycamores, enjoyed the sea breeze, rested, and
talked. I wrote, fleshing out my journal notes for the
week. I was just finishing that when Travis sat down
next to me and asked his question:
"You believe in all this Earthseed stuff, don't you?"
"Every word," I answered.
"But. . .you made it up."
I reached down, picked up a small stone, and put it
on the table between us. "If I could analyze this and
tell you all that it was made of, would that mean I'd
made up its contents?"
He didn't do more than glance at the rock. He kept
his eyes on me. "So what did you analyze to get
Earthseed?"
"Other people," I said, "myself, everything I could
read, hear, see, all the history I could learn. My
father is-- was-- a minister and a teacher. My
stepmother ran a neighborhood school. I had a
chance to see a lot."
"What did your father think of your idea of God?"
"He never knew."
"You never had the guts to tell him."
I shrugged. "He's the one person in the world I
worked hard not to hurt."
"Dead?"
"She taught you about entropy?" Harry asked.
"She taught me to read and write," Travis said.
"Then she taught me to teach myself. The man she
worked for had a library-- a whole big room full of
books."
"He let you read them?" I asked.
"He didn't let me near them." Travis gave me a
humorless smile. "I read them anyway. My mother
would sneak them to me."
Of course. Slaves did that two hundred years ago.
They sneaked around and educated themselves as
best they could, sometimes suffering whipping, sale,
or mutilation for their efforts.
"Did he ever catch you or her at it?" I asked.
"No." Travis turned to look toward the sea. "We were
careful. It was important. She never borrowed more
than one book at a time. I think his wife knew, but
she was a decent woman. She never said anything.
She was the one who talked him into letting me
marry Natividad."
The son of the cook marrying one of the maids. That
was like something out of another era, too.
"Then my mother died and all Natividad and I had
was each other, and then the baby. I was staying on
as gardener-handyman, but then that old bastard we
worked for decided he wanted Natividad. He would
try to watch when she fed the baby. Couldn't let her
alone. That's why we left. That's why his wife helped
us leave. She gave us money. She knew it wasn't
Natividad's fault. And I knew I didn't want to have to
kill the guy. So we left."
In slavery when that happened, there was nothing
the slaves could do about it-- or nothing that wouldn't
get them killed, sold, or beaten.
I looked at Natividad who sat a short distance away,
on spread out sleepsacks, playing with her baby and
talking to Zahra. She had been lucky. Did she know?
How many other people were less lucky-- unable to
escape the master's attentions or gain the mistress's
sympathies. How far did masters and mistresses go
these days toward putting less than submissive
servants in their places?
"I still can't see change or entropy as God," Travis
said, bringing the conversation back to Earthseed.
"Then show me a more pervasive power than
change," I said. "It isn't just entropy. God is more
complex than that. Human behavior alone should
teach you that much. And there's still more
complexity when you're dealing with several things
at once-- as you always are. There are all kinds of
changes in the universe."
"Then they're supposed to do what?" he demanded.
"Read a poem?"
"Or remember a truth or a comfort or a reminder to
action," I said. "People do that all the time. They
reach back to the Bible, the Talmud, the Koran, or
some other religious book that helps them deal with
the frightening changes that happen in life."
"Change does scare most people."
"I know. God is frightening. Best to learn to cope."
"Your stuff isn't very comforting."
"It is after a while. I'm still growing into it myself. God
isn't good or evil, doesn't favor you or hate you, and
yet God is better partnered than fought."
"Your God doesn't care about you at all," Travis
said.
"All the more reason to care for myself and others.
All the more reason to create Earthseed
communities and shape God together. `God is
Trickster, Teacher, Chaos, Clay.' We decide which
aspect we embrace-- and how to deal with the
others."
"Is that what you want to do? Set up Earthseed
communities?''
"Yes."
"And then what?"
There it was. The opening. I swallowed and turned a
little so that I could see the burned over area. It was
so damn ugly. Hard to think anyone had done that
on purpose.
"And then what?" Travis insisted. "A God like yours
wouldn't have a heaven for people to hope for, so
what is there?"
SUNDAY, AUGUST 15, 2027
I think Travis Charles Douglas is my first convert.
Zahra Moss is my second. Zahra has listened as the
days passed, and as Travis and I went on arguing
off and on. Sometimes she asked questions or
pointed out what she saw as inconsistencies. After a
while, she said. "I don't care about no outer space.
You can keep that part of it. But if you want to put
together some kind of community where people look
out for each other and don't have to take being
pushed around, I'm with you. I've been talking to
Natividad. I don't want to live the way she had to. I
don't want to live the way my mama had to either."
I wondered how much difference there was between
Natividad's former employer who treated her as
though he owned her and Richard Moss who
purchased young girls to be part of his harem. It was
all a matter of personal feeling, no doubt. Natividad
had resented her employer. Zahra had accepted and
perhaps loved Richard Moss.
Earthseed is being born right here on Highway 101--
on that portion of 101 that was once El Camino
Real, the royal highway of California's Spanish past.
Now it's a highway, a river of the poor. A river
flooding north.
I've come to think that I should be fishing that river
even as I follow its current. I should watch people
not only to spot those who might be dangerous to
us, but to find those few like Travis and Natividad
who would join us and be welcome.
And then what? Find a place to squat and take
over? Act as a kind of gang? No. Not quite a gang.
We aren't gang types. I don't want gang types with
their need to dominate, rob and terrorize. And yet we
might have to dominate. We might have to rob to
survive, and even terrorize to scare off or kill
enemies. We'll have to be very careful how we allow
our needs to shape us. But we must have arable
land, a dependable water supply, and enough
freedom from attack to let us establish ourselves and
grow.
It might be possible to find such an isolated place
along the coast, and make a deal with the
inhabitants. If there were a few more of us, and if we
were better armed, we might provide security in
exchange for living room. We might also provide
education plus reading and writing services to adult
illiterates. There might be a market for that kind of
thing. So many people, children and adults, are
illiterate these days. . . . We might be able to do it--
grow our own food, grow ourselves and our
neighbors into something brand new. Into
Earthseed.
.
Parable of the Sower
19
The ground beneath your feet moves,
Changes.
The galaxies move through space.
The stars ignite,
burn,
age,
cool,
Evolving.
God is Change.
God prevails.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2027
(from notes expanded SUNDAY,
AUGUST 29)
Earthquake today.
It hit early this morning just as we were beginning
the day's walk, and it was a strong one. The ground
itself gave a low, grating rumble like buried thunder.
It jerked and shuddered, then seemed to drop. I'm
sure it did drop, though I don't know how far. Once
the shaking stopped, everything looked the same--
except for sudden patches of dust thrown up here
and there in the brown hills around us.
Several people screamed or shouted during the
quake. Some, burdened by heavy packs, lost their
footing and fell into the dirt or onto the broken
asphalt. Travis, with Dominic on his chest and a
heavy pack on his back was almost one of these. He
stumbled, staggered, and managed somehow to
catch himself. The baby, unhurt, but jolted by the
sudden shaking, began to cry, adding to the noise of
two older children walking nearby, the sudden
talking of almost everyone, and the gasps of an old
man who had fallen during the quake.
I put aside my usual suspicions and went to see
whether the old man was all right-- not that I could
have done much to help him if he hadn't been. I
retrieved his cane for him-- it had landed beyond his
reach-- and helped him up. He was as light as a
child, thin, toothless, and frightened of me.
I gave him a pat on the shoulder and sent him on his
way, checking when his back was turned to see that
he hadn't lifted anything. The world was full of
thieves. Old people and young kids were often
pickpockets.
Nothing missing.
Another man nearby smiled at me-- an older, but not
yet old black man who still had his teeth, and who
pushed his belongings in twin saddlebags hanging
from a small, sturdy metal-framed cart. He didn't say
anything, but I liked his smile. I smiled back. Then I
remembered that I was supposed to be a man, and
wondered whether he had seen through my
disguise. Not that it mattered.
I went back to my group where Zahra and Natividad
were comforting Dominic and Harry was picking up
something from the roadside. I went to Harry, and
saw that he had found a filthy rag knotted into a
small, tight ball around something. Harry tore the
rotten cloth and a roll of money fell out into his
hands. Hundred dollar bills. Two or three dozen of
them.
"Put it away!" I whispered.
He pushed the money into a deep pants pocket.
"New shoes," he whispered. "Good ones, and other
things. Do you need anything?"
I had promised to buy him a new pair of shoes as
soon as we reached a dependable store. His were
worn out. Now another idea occurred to me. "If you
have enough," I whispered, "Buy yourself a gun. I'll
still get your shoes. You get a gun!" Then I spoke to
the others, ignoring his surprise. "Is everyone all
right?"
Everyone was. Dominic was happy again, riding now
on his mother's back, and playing with her hair.
Zahra was readjusting her pack, and Travis had
gone on and was taking a look at the small
community ahead. This was farm country. We'd
passed through nothing for days except small, dying
towns, withering roadside communities and farms,
some working, some abandoned and growing
weeds.
We walked forward toward Travis.
"Fire," he said as we approached.
One house down the hill from the road smoked from
several of its windows. Already people from the
highway had begun to drift down toward it. Trouble.
The people who owned the house might manage to
put out their fire and still be overwhelmed by
scavengers.
"Let's get away from here," I said. "The people down
there are still strong, and they're going to feel
besieged soon. They'll fight back."
"We might find something we can use," Zahra
argued.
"There's nothing down there worth our getting shot
over," I said. "Let's go!" I led the way past the small
community and we were almost clear of it when the
gunfire began.
There were people still on the road with us, but
many had flooded down into the small community to
steal. The crowd would not confine its attention to
the one burning house, and all the householders
would have to resist.
There were more shots behind us-- first single shots,
then an uneven crackling of exchanged fire, then the
unmistakable chatter of automatic weapons fire. We
walked faster, hoping that we were beyond the
range of anything aimed in our direction.
"Shit!" Zahra whispered, keeping up with me. "I
should have known that was going to happen.
People out here in the middle of nowhere gotta be
tough."
"I don't think their toughness will get them through
this day, though," I said, looking back. There was
much more smoke rising now, and it was rising from
more than one place. Distant shouts and screams
mixed with the gunfire. Stupid place to put a naked
little community. They should have hidden their
homes away in the mountains where few strangers
would ever see them. That was something for me to
keep in mind. All the people of this community could
do now was take a few of their tormentors with them.
Tomorrow the survivors of this place would be on the
road with scraps of their belongings on their backs.
"Sounds like women," Harry said.
I sighed. "Let's go see. It might just be a matter of
pushing some wood off them or something."
Harry caught me by the shoulder. "You sure?"
"Yeah." I took the gun out and gave it to him in case
someone else's pain made me useless. "Watch our
backs," I said.
We went in wary and tentative, knowing that a call
for help could be false, could lure people to their
attackers. A few other people followed us off the
road, and Harry hung back, staying between them
and us. Bankole shoved his cart along, keeping up
with me.
There were two voices calling from the rubble. Both
sounded like women. One was pleading, the other
cursing. We located them by the sound of their
voices, then Zahra, Travis and I began throwing off
rubble-- dry, broken wood, plaster, plastic, and brick
from an ancient chimney. Bankole stood with Harry,
watching, and looking formidable. Did he have a
gun? I hoped he did. We were drawing a small
audience of hungry-eyed scavengers. Most people
looked to see what we were doing, and went on. A
few stayed and stared. If the women had been
trapped since the earthquake, it was surprising that
no one had come already to steal their belongings
and set fire to the rubble, leaving them in it. I hoped
we would be able to get the women out and get back
on the highway before someone decided to rush us.
No doubt they already would have if there had been
anything of value in sight.
Natividad spoke to Bankole, then put Dominic in one
of his saddlebags and felt to see that her knife was
still in her pocket. I didn't like that much. Better she
should keep wearing the baby so we could leave at
a run if she had to.
We found a pale leg, bruised and bleeding but
unbroken, pinned under a beam. A whole section of
wall and ceiling plus some of the chimney had fallen
on these women. We moved the loose stuff then
worked together to lift heavier pieces. At last we
dragged the women out by their exposed limbs-- an
arm and a leg for one, both legs for the other. I didn't
enjoy it any more than they did.
On the other hand, it wasn't that bad. The women
had lost some skin here and there, and one was
bleeding from the nose and mouth. She spat out
blood and a couple of teeth and cursed and tried to
get up. I let Zahra help her up. All I wanted to do
now was get away from her.
The other one, face wet with tears, just sat and
stared at us. She was quiet now in a blank,
unnatural way. Too quiet. When Travis tried to help
her up, she cringed and cried out. Travis let her
alone. She didn't seem to be hurt beyond a few
scratches, but she might have hit her head. She
might be in shock.
"Where's your stuff?" Zahra was asking the bloody
one. "We're going to have to get away from here
fast."
I rubbed my mouth, trying to get past an irrational
certainty that two of my own teeth were gone. I felt
horrible-- scraped and bruised and throbbing, yet
whole and unbroken, undamaged in any major way.
I just wanted to huddle somewhere until I felt less
miserable. I took a deep breath and went to the
frightened, cringing woman.
"Can you understand me?" I asked.
She looked at me, then looked around, saw her
companion wiping away blood with a grimy hand,
and tried to get up and run to her. She tripped,
started to fall, and I caught her, grateful that she
wasn't very big.
"Your legs are all right," I said, "but take it easy. We
have to get out of here soon, and you've got to be
able to walk."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"A total stranger," I said. "Try to walk."
"There was an earthquake."
"Yeah. Walk!"
She took a shaky step away from me, then another.
She staggered over to her friend. "Allie?" she said.
Her friend saw her, stumbled to her, hugged her,
smeared her with blood, "Jill! Thank God!"
"Here's their stuff," Travis said. "Let's get them out of
here while we still can."
We made them walk a little more, tried to make them
see and understand the danger of staying where we
were. We couldn't drag them with us, and what
would have been the point of digging them out, then
leaving them at the mercy of scavengers. They had
to walk along with us until they were stronger and
able to take care of themselves.
"Okay," the bloody one said. She was the smaller
and tougher of the two, not that there was that much
physical difference between them. Two
medium-size, brown-haired white women in their
twenties. They might be sisters.
"Okay," the bloody one repeated. "Let's get out of
here." She was walking without limping or staggering
now, though her companion was less steady.
"Give me my stuff," she said.
I can't describe the pain.
The others told me later that I screamed as they'd
never heard anyone scream. I'm not surprised.
Nothing has ever hurt me that much before.
After a while, the agony in my chest ebbed and died.
That is, the man on top of me bled and died. Not
until then could I begin to be aware of something
other than pain.
The first thing I heard was Dominic, crying.
I understood then that I had also heard shots fired--
several shots. Where was everyone? Were they
wounded?
Dead? Being held prisoner?
I kept my body still beneath the dead man. He was
painfully heavy as deadweight, and his body odor
was nauseating. He had bled all over my chest, and,
if my nose was any judge, in death, he had urinated
on me. Yet I didn't dare move until I understood the
situation.
I opened my eyes just a little.
Before I could understand what I was seeing,
someone hauled the stinking dead man off me. I
found myself looking into two worried faces: Harry
and Bankole.
I coughed and tried to get up, but Bankole held me
down.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" he demanded.
"No, I'm all right." I said. I saw Harry staring at all the
blood, and I added, "Don't worry. The other guy did
all the bleeding."
They helped me up, and I discovered I was right.
The dead man had urinated on me. I was almost
frantic with the need to strip off my filthy clothes and
wash. But that had to wait. No matter how disgusting
I was, I wouldn't undress in daylight where I could be
seen. I'd had enough trouble for one day.
I looked around, saw Travis and Natividad
comforting Dominic who was still screaming. Zahra
was with the two new girls, standing guard beside
them as they sat on the ground.
"Are those two okay?" I asked.
Harry nodded. "They're scared and shaken up, but
they're all right. Everyone's all right-- except him and
his friends." He gestured toward the dead man.
There were three more dead lying nearby.
"There were some wounded," Harry said. "We let
them go."
I nodded. "We'd better strip these bodies and go too.
We're too obvious here from the highway."
We did a quick, thorough job, searching everything
except body cavities. We weren't needy enough to
do that yet. Then, at Zahra's insistence, I did go
behind the ruined house for a quick change of
clothing. She took the gun from Harry and stood
watch for me.
"You're bloody," she said. "If people think you're
wounded, they might jump you. This ain't a good day
to look like you got something wrong with you."
I suspected that she was right. Anyway, it was a
pleasure to have her talk me into something I
already wanted so much to do.
I put my filthy, wet clothes into a plastic bag, sealed
it, and stuffed it into my pack. If any of the dead had
owned clothing that would fit me, and that was still in
wearable condition, I would have thrown mine away.
As it was, I would keep them and wash them the
next time we came to a water station or a store that
permitted washing. We had collected money from
the corpses, but it would be best to use that for
necessities.
We had taken about twenty-five hundred dollars in
all from the four corpses-- along with two knives that
we could sell or pass on to the two girls, and one
gun pulled by a man Harry had shot. The gun turned
out to be an empty, dirty Beretta nine millimeter. Its
owner had had no ammunition, but we can buy that--
maybe from Bankole. For that we will spend money.
I had found a few pieces of jewelry in the pocket of
the man who attacked me-- two gold rings, a
necklace of polished blue stones that I thought were
lapis lazuli, and a single earring which turned out to
be a radio. The radio we would keep. It could give us
information about the world beyond the highway. It
would be good not to be cut off any longer. I
wondered who my attacker had robbed to get it.
All four of the corpses had little plastic pill boxes
hidden somewhere on them. Two boxes contained a
couple of pills each. The other two were empty. So
these people who carried neither food nor water nor
adequate weapons did carry pills when they could
steal them or steal enough to buy them. Junkies.
What was their drug of choice, I wondered. Pyro?
For the first time in days, I found myself thinking of
my brother Keith. Had he dealt in the round purple
pills we kept finding on people who attacked us?
Was that why he died?
A few miles later along the highway, we saw some
cops in cars, heading south toward what must now
be a burned out hulk of a community with a lot of
corpses. Perhaps the cops would arrest a few
late-arriving scavengers. Perhaps they would
scavenge a little themselves. Or perhaps they would
just have a look and drive away. What had cops
done for my community when it was burning?
Nothing.
The two women we'd dug out of the rubble want to
stay with us. Allison and Jillian Gilchrist are their
names. They are sisters, 24 and 25 years old, poor,
running away from a life of prostitution. Their pimp
was their father. The house that had fallen on them
was empty when they took shelter in it the night
before. It looked long abandoned.
"Abandoned buildings are traps," Zahra told them as
we walked. "Out here in the middle of nowhere,
they're targets for all kinds of people."
"Nobody bothered us," Jill said. "But then the house
fell on us, and nobody helped us either, until you
guys came along."
"You're very fortunate," Bankole told her. He was still
with us, and walking next to me. "People don't help
each other much out here."
"We know," Jill admitted. "We're grateful. Who are
you guys, anyway?"
Harry gave her an odd little smile. "Earthseed," he
said, and glanced at me. You have to watch out for
Harry when he smiles that way.
"What's Earthseed?" Jill asked, right on cue. She
had let Harry direct her gaze to me.
"We share some ideas," I said. "We intend to settle
up north, and found a community."
"Where up north?" Allie demanded. Her mouth was
still hurting, and I felt it more when I paid attention to
her. At least her bleeding had almost stopped.
"We're looking for jobs that pay salaries and we're
watching water prices," I said. "We want to settle
where water isn't such a big problem."
"Water's a problem everywhere," she proclaimed.
Then, "What are you? Some kind of cult or
something?"
"We believe in some of the same things," I said.
She turned to stare at me with what looked like
hostility. "I think religion is dog shit," she announced.
"It's either phony or crazy."
I shrugged. "You can travel with us or you can walk
away."
"But what the hell do you stand for?" she demanded.
"What do you pray to?
"Ourselves," I said. "What else is there?"
She turned away in disgust, then turned back. "Do
we have to join your cult if we travel with you?"
"No."
"All right then!" She turned her back and walked
ahead of me as though she'd won something.
I raised my voice just enough to startle and projected
it at the back of her head. I said, "We risked
ourselves for you today."
She jumped, but refused to look back.
I continued. "You don't owe us anything for that. It
isn't something you could buy from us. But if you
travel with us, and there's trouble, you stand by us,
stand with us. Now will you do that or not?"
Allie swung around, stiff with anger. She stopped
right in front of me and stood there.
I didn't stop or turn. It wasn't a time for giving way. I
needed to know what her pride and anger might
drive her to. How much of that apparent hostility of
hers was real, and how much might be due to her
pain? Was she going to be more trouble than she
was worth?
When she realized that I meant to walk over her if I
had to, that I would do it, she slid around me to walk
beside me as though she had intended to do that all
along.
"If you hadn't been the ones to dig us out," she said,
"we wouldn't bother with you at all." She drew a
deep, ragged breath. "We know how to pull our own
weight. We can help our friends and fight our
enemies. We've been doing that since we were
kids."
I looked at her, thinking of the little that she and her
sister had told us about their lives: prostitution, pimp
father. . . . Hell of a story if it were true. No doubt the
details would be even more interesting. How had
they gotten away from their father, anyway? They
would bear watching, but they might turn out to be
worth something.
"Welcome." I said.
She stared at me, nodded, then walked ahead of me
in long quick strides. Her sister, who had dropped to
walk near us while we were talking, now walked
faster to join her. And Zahra, who had dropped back
to keep an eye on the sister, grinned at me and
shook her head. She went up to join Harry who was
leading the group.
Bankole came up beside me again, and I realized he
had gotten out of the way as soon as he saw trouble
between Allie and me.
"One fight a day is enough for me," he said when he
saw me looking at him.
I smiled. "Thank you for standing by us back there."
He shrugged. "I was surprised to see that anyone
else cared what happened to a couple of strangers."
"You cared."
"Yes. That kind of thing will get me killed someday. If
you don't mind, I'd like to travel with your group, too."
"You have been. You're welcome."
"Thank you," he said, and smiled back at me. He
had clear eyes with deep brown irises-- attractive
eyes. I like him too much already. I'll have to be
careful.
Late today we reached Salinas, a small city that
seemed little touched by the quake and its
aftershocks. The ground has been shuddering off
and on all day. Also, Salinas seemed untouched by
the hordes of overeager scavengers that we had
been seeing since that first burning community this
morning. That was a surprise. Almost all of the
smaller communities we'd passed had been burning
and swarming with scavengers. It was as though the
quake had given yesterday's quiet, plodding paupers
permission to go animal and prey on anyone who
still lives in a house.
I suspected that the bulk of the predatory
scavengers were still behind us, still killing and dying
and fighting over the spoils. I've never worked as
hard at not seeing what was going on around me as
I did today. The smoke and the noise helped veil
things from me. I had enough to do dealing with
Allie's throbbing face and mouth and the ambient
misery of the highway.
We were tired when we reached Salinas, but we had
decided to walk on after resupplying and washing.
We didn't want to be in town when the worst of the
scavengers arrived. They might be calm, tired after
their day of burning and stealing, but I doubted it. I
thought they would be drunk with power and hungry
for more. As Bankole said, "Once people get the
idea that it's all right-to take what you want and
destroy the rest, who knows when they'll stop."
He got the old man down to a price he seemed to
think was fair, then he called us over, "Any of you
know how to handle a relic like this?" he asked.
Well, Harry and I did, and he had us look the rifle
over. In the end, everyone had a look at it, some
with obvious awkwardness and some with familiarity.
Back in the neighborhood, Harry and I had practiced
with the guns of other households-- rifles and
shotguns as well as handguns. Whatever was legal
back home was shared, at least in practice sessions.
My father had wanted us to be familiar with whatever
weapons might be available. Harry and I were both
good, competent shots, but we'd never bought a
used gun. I liked the rifle, l liked the look and feel of
it, but that didn't mean much. Harry seemed to like it,
too. Same problem.
"Come over here," Bankole said. He herded us out
of earshot of the old couple. "You should buy that
gun," he told us. "You took enough money off those
four junkies to pay the price I got that guy to agree
to. You need at least one accurate, long-range
weapon, and this is a good one."
"That money would buy a lot of food," Travis said.
Bankole nodded. "Yes, but only living people need
food. You buy this, and it will pay for itself the first
time you need it. Anyone who doesn't know how to
use it, I'll teach. My father and I used to hunt deer
with guns just like this."
"It's an antique," Harry said. "If it were automatic. . .
."
"If it were automatic, you couldn't afford it." Bankole
shrugged. "This thing is cheap because it's old and
it's legal."
"And it's slow," Zahra said. "And if you think that old
guy's price is cheap, you're crazy."
"I know I'm new here," Allie said, "but I agree with
Bankole. You guys are good with your handguns,
but sooner or later, you're going to meet someone
who sits out of handgun range and picks you off.
Picks us off."
"And this rifle is going to save us?" Zahra
demanded.
"I doubt that it would save us," I said. "But with a
decent shot behind it, it might give us a chance." I
looked at Bankole. "You hit any of those deer?"
He smiled. "One or two."
I did not return the smile. "Why don't you buy the rifle
for yourself?"
"I can't afford it," he said. "I've got enough money to
keep me going and take care of necessities for a
while. Everything else that I had was stolen from me
or burned.
I didn't quite believe him. But then, no one knew how
much money I had either. In a way, I suppose he
was asking about our solvency. Did we have enough
money to spend an unexpected windfall on an old
rifle? And what did he intend to do if we did? I
hoped, not for the first time, that he wasn't just a
handsome thief. Yet I did like the gun, and we do
need it.
"Harry and I are decent shots, too," I said to the
group. "I like the feel of this gun, and it's the best we
can afford right now. Has anyone seen any real
trouble with it?"
They looked at one another. No one answered.
"It just needs a cleaning and some 30-06
ammunition," Bankole said. "It's been stored for a
while, but it appears to have been well maintained. If
you buy it, I think I can manage to buy a cleaning kit
and some ammunition."
At that, I spoke up before anyone else could. "If we
buy, that's a deal. Who else can handle the rifle?"
"I can," Natividad said. And when that won her a few
surprised looks, she smiled. "I had no brothers. My
father needed to teach someone."
"We never had a chance to do any shooting," Allie
said. "But we can learn."
Jill nodded. "I always wanted to learn," she said.
"I'll have to learn, too," Travis admitted. "Where I
grew up, guns were either locked away or carried by
hired guards."
"Let's go buy it, then," I said. "And let's get out of
here. The sun will be down soon."
Bankole kept his word, bought cleaning things and
plenty of ammunition-- insisted on buying them
before we left town, because, as he said, "Who
knows when we'll need it, or when we'll find other
people willing to sell it to us."
Once that was settled, we left town.
As we left, Harry carried the new rifle and Zahra
carried the Beretta, both empty and in need of
attention before we loaded them. Only Bankole and I
carried fully loaded guns. I led the group and he
brought up the rear. It was getting dark. Behind us in
the distance, we could hear gunfire and the dull
thunder of small explosions.
20
God is neither good
nor evil,
neither loving
nor hating.
God is Power.
God is Change.
We must find the rest of what we need
within ourselves,
in one another,
in our Destiny.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 2027
(from notes expanded TUESDAY,
AUGUST 31)
Today or tomorrow should be a rest day, but we've
agreed not to rest. Last night was full of distant
shooting, explosions and fire. We could see fire
behind us, though not in front. Moving on seems
sensible, in spite of our weariness.
Then, this morning, I cleaned the little black earring
radio with alcohol from my pack, turned the thing on,
and put it in my ear. I had to relay what it said since
its sound could not reach the others.
What it said told us we should not only forget about
resting, but change our plans.
We had intended to follow U.S. 101 up through San
Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge. But
the radio warned us to stay away from the Bay Area.
From San Jose up through San Francisco, Oakland,
and Berkeley, there is chaos. The quake hit hard up
there, and the scavengers, predators, cops, and
private armies of security guards seem bent on
destroying what's left. Also, of course, pyro is doing
its part. This far north, the radio reporters shorten
the name to "pro" or "ro" and they say there are
plenty of addicts.
Addicts are running wild, setting fires in areas that
the earthquake didn't damage. Bands of the street
poor precede or follow them, grabbing whatever they
can from stores and from the walled enclaves of the
rich and what's left of the middle class. Yeah.
In some places, the rich are escaping by flying out in
helicopters. The bridges that are still intact-- and
most of them are-- are guarded either by the police
or by gangs. Both groups are there to rob desperate,
fleeing people of their weapons, money, food, and
water-- at the least. The penalty for being too poor to
be worth robbing is a beating, a rape, and/or death.
The National Guard has been activated to restore
order, and I suppose it might. But I suspect that in
the short term, it will only add to the chaos. What
else could another group of well-armed people do in
such an insane situation. The thoughtful ones might
take their guns and other equipment and vanish to
help their families. Others might find themselves at
war with their own people. They'll be confused and
scared and dangerous. Of course, some will
discover that they enjoy their new power-- the power
to make others submit, the power to take what they
want-- property, sex, life. . . .
Bad situation. The Bay Area will be a good place to
avoid for a long time.
We spread maps on the ground, studied them as we
ate breakfast, and decided to turn off U.S. 101 this
morning. We'll follow a smaller, no doubt emptier
road inland to the little town of San Juan Bautista,
then east along State Route 156. From 156 to 152 to
Interstate 5. We'll use I-5 to circle around the Bay
Area. For a time we'll walk up the center of the state
instead of along the coast. We might have to bypass
I-5 and go farther east to State 33 or 99. I like the
emptiness around much of I-5. Cities are dangerous.
Even small towns can be deadly. Yet we have to be
able to resupply. In particular, we have to be able to
get water. If that means going into the more
populated areas around one of the other highways,
we'll do it. Meanwhile we'll be careful, resupply every
time we get a chance, never pass up a chance to
top off our water and food, waste nothing. But, hell,
the maps are old. Maybe the area around I-5 is more
settled now.
To reach I-5, we'll pass a big freshwater lake-- San
Luis Reservoir. It might be dry now. Over the past
few years a lot of things had gone dry. But there will
be trees, cool shade, a place to rest and be
comfortable. Perhaps there will at least be a water
station. If so, we'll camp there and rest for a day or
even two days. After hiking up and over a lot of hills,
we'll need the extra rest.
For now, I suspect that we'll soon have scavengers
being driven north toward us from Salinas, and
refugees being driven south toward us from the Bay
area. The best thing we can do it get out of the way.
We got an early start, fortified by the good food we
had bought at Salinas-- some extra stuff that
Bankole had wheeled in his cart, though we all
chipped in to buy it. We made sandwiches-- dried
beef, cheese, sliced tomatoes-- all on bread made
from wheat flour. And we ate grapes. It was a shame
we had to hurry. We hadn't had anything that good
tasting for a long time.
The highway north was emptier today than I've ever
seen it. We were the biggest crowd around-- eight
adults and a baby-- and other people kept away
from us. Several of the other walkers were
individuals and couples with children. They all
seemed in a hurry-- as though they, too, knew what
might be coming behind them. Did they also know
what might be ahead-- what was ahead if they
stayed on 101. Before we left 101 I tried to warn a
couple of women traveling alone with kids to avoid
the Bay Area. I told them I'd heard there was a lot of
trouble up there-- fires, riots, bad quake damage.
They just held on to their kids and edged away from
me.
Then we left the 101 and took our small, hilly road,
our short cut to San Juan Bautista. The road was
paved and not too badly broken up. It was lonely.
For long stretches we saw no one at all. No one had
followed us from 101. We passed farms, small
communities, and shanties, and the people living in
these came out with their guns to stare at us. But
they let us alone. The short cut worked. We
managed to reach and pass through San Juan
Bautista before dark. We've camped just east of the
town. We're all exhausted, footsore, full of aches
and pains and blisters. I long for a rest day, but not
yet. Not yet.
I put my sleepsack next to Bankole's and lay down,
already half asleep. We had drawn straws for the
watch schedule, and my watch wasn't until the early
morning. I ate nuts and raisins, bread and cheese,
and I slept like a corpse.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2027
(from notes expanded TUESDAY,
AUGUST 31)
Early this morning I awoke to the sound of gunfire,
nearby and loud. Short bursts of automatic weapons
fire. And there was light from somewhere.
"Be still," someone said. "Stay down and keep
quiet." Zahra's voice. She had the watch just before
mine.
"What is it?" one of the Gilchrists demanded. And
then, "We've got to get away!"
"Stay!" I whispered. "Be still, and it will pass."
I could see now that two groups were running from
the highway-- the 156-- one group chasing the other,
both firing their guns as though they and their
enemies were the only people in the world. We could
only stay down and hope they didn't shoot us by
accident. If nobody moved, accidents were less
likely.
The light came from a fire burning some distance
from us. Not buildings. We hadn't camped near
buildings. Yet something was burning. It was, I
decided, a big truck of some kind. Perhaps that was
the reason for the shooting. Someone, some group
had tried to hijack a truck on the highway and things
had gone wrong. Now, whatever the truck was
carrying-- food, I suspected-- the fire would get it.
Neither the hijackers nor the defenders would win.
We would win if we could just keep out of the
fighting.
I reached over to feel for Bankole, wanting
assurance that he was all right.
He wasn't there.
His sleepsack and his things were still there, but he
was gone.
Moving as little as I could, I looked toward our
designated toilet area. He must be there. I couldn't
see him, but where else could he be? Bad timing. I
squinted, trying to pick him out, not knowing whether
to be glad or afraid because I couldn't. After all, if I
could see him, so could other people.
The shooting went on and on while we lay still and
quiet and scared. One of the trees we'd camped
under was hit twice, but well above our heads.
Then the truck exploded. I don't know what exploded
in it. It hadn't looked like an old truck-- one of those
that used diesel fuel, but it might have been. Would
diesel fuel explode? I didn't know.
The explosion seemed to end the gunfight. A few
more shots were exchanged, then nothing. I saw
people, visible in the firelight, walking back toward
the truck. Sometime later, I saw others-- several
together in a bunch-- moving away toward the town.
Both groups were moving away from us, and that
was good.
Now. Where was Bankole? In as low a voice as I
could manage, I spoke to the others. "Can anyone
see Bankole?"
No answer.
"Zahra, did you see him go?"
"Yeah, a couple of minutes before the shooting
started," she answered.
All right. If he didn't come out soon, we would have
to go looking for him. I swallowed, tried not to think
about finding him hurt or dead. "Is everyone else all
right?" I asked. "Zahra?"
"I'm fine."
"Harry?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."
"Travis? Natividad?"
"We're all right," Travis said.
"What about Dominic?"
"Didn't even wake up."
That was good. If he had, his crying could have
gotten us killed. "Allie? Jill?"
"We're okay," Allie said.
I sat up, keeping my movements slow and cautious.
I couldn't see anyone or hear anything beyond
insects and the distant fire. When no one shot me,
others sat up too. Where noise and light had not
awakened Dominic, his mother's movement did the
trick. He awoke and began to whimper, but Natividad
held him and he quieted.
But still no Bankole. I wanted to get up and go
looking for him. I had two mental images of him: One
of him lying wounded or dead, and one of him
crouching behind a tree holding his own Beretta nine
millimeter. If the latter was true, I could scare him
into shooting me. There might also be other people
out there with ready guns and frayed nerves.
"What time is it?" I asked Zahra who had Harry's
watch.
"Three forty," she said.
"Let me have the gun," I said. "Your watch is almost
over anyway."
"What about Bankole?" She passed both the watch
and the gun over."
"If he isn't back in five minutes I'm going to go look
for him."
"Wait a minute," Harry said. "You aren't going to do
that by yourself. I'll go with you."
I almost said no. I don't think he would have paid
any attention if I had, but I never spoke the word. If
Bankole were injured and conscious, I would be
useless the moment I saw him. I would be lucky to
drag myself back to camp. Someone else would
have to drag him back.
"Thank you," I said to Harry.
Five minutes later, he and I went first to the toilet
area, then around it, searching. There was no one,
or rather, we could see no one. Still, there might be
other people around-- others camping overnight,
others involved in the shooting, others prowling. . . .
Still, I called Bankole's name once, aloud. I touched
Harry as a kind of warning and he jumped, settled,
then jumped again as I said the name. We both
listened in absolute silence.
There was a rustling off to our right where there
were several trees blotting out the stars, creating a
space of impenetrable darkness. Anything could be
there.
The rustling came again, and with it a whimper-- a
child's whimper. Then Bankole's voice:
"Olamina!"
"Yes," I answered, almost limp with relief. "Here!"
He came out of the pool of darkness, a tall, broad
shadow that seemed bulkier than it should have
been. He was carrying something.
"I have an orphaned child," he said. "The mother
was hit by a stray bullet. She just died."
I sighed. "Is the child hurt?"
"No, just scared. I'll carry him back to our camp. Will
one of you get his things?"
"Take us to his camp," I said.
Harry collected the child's things, and I collected the
mother's and searched her body. Between us, we
gathered everything. By the time we finished, the
little boy, perhaps three years old, was crying. That
scared me. I left Harry to push the dead woman's
pack along in her baby carriage and Bankole to carry
the whimpering child. All I carried was the gun,
drawn and ready. Even when we got back to our
own camp, I couldn't relax. The little boy wouldn't be
quiet and Dominic joined him with even louder cries.
Zahra and Jill worked to comfort the new child, but
he was surrounded by strangers in the middle of the
night, and he wanted his mother!
I saw movement over near the burned out carcass of
the truck. The fire was still burning, but it was
smaller now, burning itself out. There were still
people near it. They had lost their truck. Would they
care about a crying child? And if they did care, would
they want to help the kid or just shut its mouth.
A lone, dark figure came away from the truck and
took several steps toward us. At that moment,
Natividad took the new child, and in spite of his age,
gave him one breast and Dominic the other.
It worked. Both children were comforted almost at
once. They made a few more small sounds, then
settled down to nursing.
The shadow figure from the truck stood still, perhaps
confused now that it was no longer guided by noise.
After a moment, it turned and went back past the
truck and out of sight. Gone. It couldn't have seen
us. We could look out of the darkness under the
trees that sheltered our campsite and see by
firelight, by starlight. But others could only follow the
baby noise to us.
"We ought to move," Allie whispered. "Even if they
can't see us, they know we're here."
"Watch with me," I said.
"What?"
"Stay awake and watch with me. Let the others get a
little more rest. Trying to move in the dark is more
dangerous than staying put."
". . .all right. But I don't have a gun."
"Do you have a knife?"
"Yeah."
"That will have to be enough until we get the other
guns clean and ready." We've been too tired and in
too much of a hurry to do that so far. Also, I don't
want Allie or Jill to have guns yet. Not yet. "Just
keep your eyes open." The only real defense against
automatic rifles is concealment and silence.
"A knife is better than a gun now," Zahra said. "If you
have to use it, it will be quiet."
I nodded. "The rest of you, try to get a little more
rest. I'll wake you at dawn."
Most of them lay down to sleep, or at least to rest.
Natividad kept both children with her. Tomorrow,
though, one of us would have to take charge of the
little boy. We didn't need the burden of such a big
child-- one who had reached the "run around and
grab everything" stage. But we had the little boy, and
there was no one to hand him off to. No woman
camping alongside a highway with her child would
have other relatives handy.
"Olamina," Bankole said into my ear. His voice was
low and soft and only I reacted to it. I turned, and he
was so close that I felt his beard brush my face. Soft,
thick beard. This morning he combed it more
carefully than he combed the hair on his head. He
has the only mirror among us. Vain, vain old man. I
moved almost by reflex toward him.
I kissed him, wondering what it would feel like to kiss
so much beard. I did kiss the beard at first, missing
his mouth by a little in the dark. Then I found it and
he moved a little and slipped his arms around me
and we settled to it for a little while.
It was hard for me to make myself push him away. I
didn't want to. He didn't want to let me.
"I was going to say thank you for coming after me,"
he said. "That woman was conscious almost until
she died. The only thing I could do for her was stay
with her."
"I was afraid you might have been shot out there."
"I was flat on the ground until I heard the woman
groaning."
I sighed. "Yeah." And then, "Rest."
He lay down next to me and rubbed my arm-- which
tingled wherever he touched it. "We should talk
soon," he said.
"At least," I agreed.
He grinned-- I could see the flash of teeth-- and
turned over and tried to sleep.
The boy's name was Justin Rohr. His dead mother
had been Sandra Rohr. Justin had been born in
Riverside, California just three years ago. His mother
had gotten him this far north from Riverside. She
had saved his birth certificate, some baby pictures,
and a picture of a stocky, freckled, red-haired man
who was, according to a notation on the back of the
photo, Richard Walter Rohr, born January 9, 2002,
and died May 20, 2026. The boy's father-- only
twenty-four when he died. I wondered what had
killed him. Sandra Rohr had saved her marriage
certificate and other papers important to her. All
were wrapped in a plastic packet that I had taken
from her body. Elsewhere on her, I had found
several thousand dollars and a gold ring.
There was nothing about relatives or a specific
destination. It seemed that Sandra had simply been
heading north with her son in search of a better life.
The little boy tolerated us all well enough today,
although he got frustrated when we didn't
understand him at once. When he cried, he
demanded that we produce his mother.
"Then he's more than three hundred miles behind
you."
". . .yeah."
"He drank a lot, didn't he."
"All the time."
"Then he'd be in no shape to follow you even if the
fire never touched him. What do you think would
happen to a drunk on the highway? He'd never even
make it out of L.A."
She nodded. "You sound like Allie. You're both right.
I know. But. . .I dream about him sometimes-- that
he's coming, that he's found us. . . . I know it's crazy.
But I wake up covered in sweat."
"Yeah," I said, remembering my own nightmares
during the search for my father. "Yeah."
Jill and I walked together for a while without talking.
We were moving slowly because Justin demanded
to be allowed to walk now and then. He had too
much energy to spend hours sitting and riding. And,
of course, when he was allowed to walk, he wanted
to run all around, investigate everything. I had time
to stop, swing my pack around, and dig out a length
of closeline. I handed it to Jill.
"Tell your sister to try harnessing him with this," I
said. "It might save his life. One end around his
waist, the other around her arm."
She took the rope.
"I've taken care of a few three-year-olds," I said,
"and I'll tell you, she's going to need a lot of help with
that little kid. If she doesn't know that now, she will."
"Are you guys just going to leave all the work to
her?" Jill demanded.
"Of course not." I watched Allie and Justin walking
along-- lean, angular woman and pudgy, bumblebee
of a child. The boy ran to investigate a bush near the
roadside, then, startled by the approach of
strangers, ran back to Allie and hung on to the cloth
of her jeans until she took his hand. "They do seem
to be adopting each other, though," I said. "And
taking care of other people can be a good cure for
nightmares like yours and maybe hers."
"You sound as though you know."
I nodded. "I live in this world, too."
We passed through Hollister before noon. We
resupplied there, not knowing when we would see
well-equipped stores again. We had already
discovered that several of the small communities
shown on the maps no longer existed-- had not
existed for years. The earthquake had done a lot of
damage in Hollister, but the people hadn't gone
animal. They seemed to be helping one another with
repairs and looking after their own destitute. Imagine
that.
21
The Self must create
Its own reasons for being.
To shape God,
Shape Self.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 2027
There is still a little water in the San Luis Reservoir.
It's more fresh water than I've ever seen in one
place, but by the vast size of the reservoir, I can see
that it's only a little compared to what should be
there-- what used to be there.
The highway runs through the recreational area for
several miles. That gave us a chance to travel
through on the road until we spotted an area that
would make a good rest-day camp and that wasn't
occupied.
There are a lot of people in the area-- people who
have set up permanent camps in everything from
rag-and-plastic tents to wooden shacks that look
almost fit for human habitation. Where are so many
people going to the bathroom? How clean is the
water in the reservoir? No doubt cities that use it
purify the water when it reaches them. Whether they
do or not, I think it's time for us to break out the
water purification tablets.
Around several of the tents and shacks, there are
small, ragged gardens-- new plantings and remnants
of summer vegetable gardens. There are a few
things left to harvest: big squashes, pumpkins, and
gourds still growing along with carrots, peppers,
greens, and a little corn. Good, cheap, filling foods.
Not enough protein, but perhaps the people hunt.
There must be game around here, and I saw plenty
of guns. People wear holstered handguns or carry
rifles or shotguns. The men in particular go armed.
They all stared at us.
As we went past, people stopped their gardening,
outdoor cooking, or whatever to stare at us. We had
pushed ourselves, had been eager to arrive ahead
of the crowd I believe will soon come in from the Bay
Area. So we didn't arrive with the usual human river.
Yet by ourselves we are enough of a crowd to make
the local squatters nervous. They let us alone,
though. Except during disaster-induced feeding
frenzies like the ones after the earthquake, most
people let one another alone. I think Dominic and
Justin are making it easier for us to fit in. Justin, now
tethered to Allie's wrist, runs around staring at the
squatters until they make him nervous. Then he runs
back to Allie and demands to be carried. He's a cute
little kid. Lean, grim-faced people tend to smile at
him.
No one shot at us or challenged us as we walked
along the highway. No one bothered us later when
we left the highway and headed into the trees
toward what we thought might be a good area. We
found old campsites and toilet places and avoided
them. We didn't want to be within sight of the
highway or of anyone else's tent or shack. We
wanted privacy, not too many rocks to sleep on, and
a way of reaching the water that didn't put us too
much on display. We looked for over an hour until
we found an isolated old campsite, long abandoned
and a little higher upslope than others we'd seen. It
suited all of us. Then, with hours of daylight left, we
rested in enormous comfort and laziness, knowing
we had the rest of today and all of tomorrow to do
almost nothing. Natividad fed Dominic and the two of
them drifted off to sleep. Allie followed her example
with Justin, although preparing him a meal was a
little more complicated. Both women had more
reason to be tired and to need sleep than the rest of
us, so we left them out when we drew lots for a
watch schedule-- one for day and night. We
shouldn't get too comfortable. Also, we agreed that
no one should go off exploring or getting water
alone. I thought the couples would soon start going
off together-- and I thought it was just about time for
Bankole and me to have that talk.
I sat with him and cleaned our new handgun while
he cleaned the rifle. Harry was on watch and needed
my gun. When I went over to give it to him, he let me
know he understood exactly what was going on
between Bankole and me.
"Be careful," he whispered. "Don't give the poor old
guy a heart attack."
"And why should people bother about the Destiny,
farfetched as it is? What's in it for them?"
"A unifying, purposeful life here on Earth, and the
hope of heaven for themselves and their children. A
real heaven, not mythology or philosophy. A heaven
that will be theirs to shape."
"Or a hell," he said. His mouth twitched. "Human
beings are good at creating hells for themselves
even out of richness." He thought for a moment. "It
sounds too simple, you know."
"You think it's simple?" I asked in surprise.
"I said it sounds too simple."
"It sounds overwhelming to some people."
"I mean it's too. . .straightforward. If you get people
to accept it, they'll make it more complicated, more
open to interpretation, more mystical, and more
comforting."
"Not around me they won't!" I said.
"With you or without you, they will. All religions
change. Think about the big ones. What do you think
Christ would be these days? A Baptist? A
Methodist? A Catholic? And the Buddha-- do you
think he'd be a Buddhist now? What kind of
Buddhism would he practice?" He smiled. "After all,
if `God is Change,' surely Earthseed can change,
and if it lasts, it will."
I looked away from him because he was smiling.
This was all nothing to him. "I know," I said. "No one
can stop Change, but we all shape Change whether
we mean to or not. I mean to guide and shape
Earthseed into what it should be."
"Perhaps." He went on smiling. "How serious are
you about this?"
The question drove me deep into myself. I spoke,
almost not knowing what I would say. "When my
father. . .disappeared," I began, "it was Earthseed
that kept me going. When most of my community
and the rest of my family were wiped out, and I was
alone, I still had Earthseed. What I am now, all that I
am now is Earthseed."
"What you are now," he said after a long silence, "is
a very unusual young woman."
We didn't talk for a while after that. I wondered what
he thought. He hadn't seemed to be bottling up too
much hilarity. No more than I'd expected. He had
been willing to go along with his wife's religious
needs. Now, he would at least permit me mine.
I wondered about his wife. He hadn't mentioned her
before. What had she been like? How had she died?
"Did you leave home because your wife died?" I
asked.
He put down a long slender cleaning rod and rested
his back against the tree behind him. "My wife died
five years ago," he said. "Three men broke in--
junkies, dealers, I don't know. They beat her, tried to
make her tell where the drugs were."
"Drugs?"
"They had decided that we must have something
they could use or sell. They didn't like the things she
was able to give them so they kept beating her. She
had a heart problem." He drew in a long breath, then
sighed. "She was still alive when I got home. She
was able to tell me what had happened. I tried to
help her, but the bastards had taken her medicine,
taken everything. I phoned for an ambulance. It
arrived an hour after she died. I tried to save her,
then to revive her. I tried so damned hard. . . ."
I stared down the hill from our camp where just a
glint of water was visible in the distance through the
trees and bushes. The world is full of painful stories.
Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any
other kind and yet I found myself thinking how
beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.
"I should have headed north when Sharon died,"
Bankole said. "I thought about it."
"But you stayed." I turned away from the water and
looked at him. "Why?"
He shook his head. "I didn't know what to do, so for
some time I didn't do anything. Friends took care of
me, cooked for me, cleaned the house. It surprised
me that they would do that. Church people most of
them. Neighbors. More her friends than mine."
I thought of Wardell Parrish, devastated after the
loss of his sister and her children-- and his house.
Had Bankole been some community's Wardell
Parrish? "Did you live in a walled community?" I
asked.
"Yes. Not rich, though. Nowhere near rich. People
managed to hold on to their property and feed their
families. Not much else. No servants. No hired
guards."
"Sounds like my old neighborhood."
"I suppose it sounds like a lot of old neighborhoods
that aren't there any more. I stayed to help the
people who had helped me. I couldn't walk away
from them."
"But you did. You left. Why?"
"Fire-- and scavengers."
"You too? Your whole community?"
"Yes. The houses burned, most of the people were
killed. . . . The rest scattered, went to family or
friends elsewhere. Scavengers and squatters moved
in. I didn't decide to leave. I escaped."
Much too familiar. "Where did you live? What city?"
"San Diego."
"That far south?"
"Yes. As I said, I should have left years ago. If I had,
I could have managed plane fare and resettlement
money."
Plane fare and resettlement money? He might not
call that rich, but we would have.
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"North." He shrugged.
"Just anywhere north or somewhere in particular"
"Anywhere where I can be paid for my services and
allowed to live among people who aren't out to kill
me for my food or water."
Or for drugs, I thought. I looked into his bearded
face and added up the hints I'd picked up today and
over the past few days. "You're a doctor, aren't
you?"
He looked a little surprised. "I was, yes. Family
practice. It seems a long time ago."
"People will always need doctors," I said. "You'll do
all right."
"My mother used to say that." He gave me a wry
smile. "But here I am."
I smiled back because, looking at him now, I couldn't
help myself, but as he spoke, I decided he had told
me at least one lie. He might be as displaced and in
distress as he appeared to be, but he wasn't just
wandering north. He wasn't looking for just
anywhere he could be paid for his services and not
robbed or murdered. He wasn't the kind of man who
wandered. He knew where he was going. He had a
haven somewhere-- a relative's home, another home
of his own, a friend's home, something-- some
definite destination.
Or perhaps he just had enough money to buy a
place for himself in Washington or Canada or
Alaska. He had had to choose between fast, safe,
expensive air travel and having settling-in money
when he got where he was going. He had chosen
settling-in money. If so, I agreed with him. He was
taking the kind of risk that would enable him to make
a new beginning as soon as possible-- if he
survived.
On the other hand, if I were right about any of this,
he might disappear on me some night. Or perhaps
he would be more open about it-- just walk away
from me some day, turn down a side road and wave
good-bye. I didn't want that. After I'd slept with him I
would want it even less.
Even now, I wanted to keep him with me. I hated
that he was lying to me already-- or I believed he
was. But why should he tell me everything? He didn't
know me very well yet, and like me, he meant to
survive. Perhaps I could convince him that he and I
could survive well together. Meanwhile, best to enjoy
him without quite trusting him. I may be wrong about
all this, but I don't believe I am. Pity.
We finished the guns, loaded them, and went down
to the water to wash. You could go right down to the
water, scoop some up in a pot, and take it away. It
was free. I kept looking around, thinking someone
would come to stop us or charge us or something. I
suppose we could have been robbed, but no one
paid any attention to us. We saw other people
getting water in bottles, canteens, pots, and bags,
but the place seemed peaceful. No one bothered
anyone. No one paid any attention to us.
"A place like this can't last," I told Bankole. "It's a
shame. Life could be good here."
"I suspect that it's against the law to live here," he
said. "This is a State Recreation Area. There should
be some kind of limit on how long you can stay. I'm
certain that there should be-- used to be-- some
group policing the place. I wonder if officials of some
kind come around to collect bribes now and then."
"Not while we're here, I hope." I dried my hands and
arms and waited for him to dry his. "Are you
hungry?" I asked.
I didn't laugh, though I wanted to. I just looked at
him.
After a while he frowned and shook his head. In a
little more time, he moved back against me, touching
my face, my shoulders, my breasts.
"You're not just eighteen," he said.
I shrugged.
"When were you born? What year?"
"Twenty oh nine."
"No." He drew the word out: "Nooo."
I kissed him and said in the same tone, "Yesss. Now
stop your nonsense. You want to be with me and I
want to be with you. We're not going to split up
because of my age, are we?"
After a while he shook his head. "You should have a
nice youngster like Travis," he said. "I should have
the sense and the strength to send you off to find
one."
That made me think of Curtis, and I cringed away
from thinking of him. I've thought as little as possible
about Curtis Talcott. He isn't like my brothers. He
may be dead, but none of us ever saw his body. I
saw his brother Michael. I was terrified of seeing
Curtis himself, but I never did. He may not be dead.
He's lost to me, but I hope he's not dead. He should
be here with me on the road. I hope he's alive and
all right.
"Who have I reminded you of?" Bankole asked me,
his voice soft and deep.
I shook my head. "A boy I knew at home. We were
going to get married this year. I don't even know
whether he's still alive."
"You loved him?"
TUESDAY, AUGUST 31, 2027
I've spent all of today talking, writing, reading, and
making love to Bankole. It seems such a luxury not
to have to get up, pack, and walk all day. We all lay
sprawled around the campsite resting aching
muscles, eating, and doing nothing. More people
flowed into the area from the highway and made
their camps, but none of them bothered us.
I began Zahra's reading lesson and Jill and Allie
looked interested. I included them as though I had
intended to from the first. It turned out that they
could read a little, but hadn't learned to write.
Toward the end of the lesson, I read a few
Earthseed verses to them in spite of Harry's groans.
Yet when Allie proclaimed that she would never pray
to any god of change, Harry was the one who
corrected her. Zahra and Travis both smiled at that,
and Bankole watched us all with apparent interest.
After that, Allie began to ask questions instead of
making scornful proclamations, and for the most
part, the others answered her-- Travis and Natividad,
Harry and Zahra. Once Bankole answered,
expanding on something I told him yesterday. Then
he caught himself and looked a little embarrassed.
"I still think it's too simple," he said to me. "A lot of it
is logical, but it will never work without a sprinkling of
mystical confusion."
"I'll leave that to my descendants," I said, and he
busied himself, digging a bag of almonds out of his
pack, pouring some into his hand, and passing the
rest around.
Just before nightfall a gun battle began over toward
the highway. We couldn't see any of it from where
we were, but we stopped talking and lay down. With
bullets flying, it seemed best to keep low.
The shooting started and stopped, moved away,
then came back. I was on watch, so I had to stay
alert, but in this storm of noise, nothing moved near
us except the trees in the evening breeze. It looked
so peaceful, and yet people out there were trying to
kill each other, and no doubt succeeding. Strange
how normal it's become for us to lie on the ground
and listen while nearby, people try to kill each other.
22
As wind,
As water,
As fire,
As life,
God
Is both creative and destructive,
Demanding and yielding,
Sculptor and clay.
God is Infinite Potential:
God is Change.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2027
We've had over a week of weary, frightening, nerve
wracking walking. We've reached and passed
through the city of Sacramento without real trouble.
We've been able to buy enough food and water,
been able to find plenty of empty places in the hills
where we could make camp. Yet none of us have
had any feelings of comfort or well-being along the
stretch of Interstate-5 that we've just traveled.
I-5 is much less traveled than U.S. 101, in spite of
the earthquake chaos. There were times when the
only people we could see were each other. Those
times never lasted long, but they did happen.
On the other hand, there were more trucks on I-5.
We had to be careful because trucks traveled during
the day as well as at night. Also, there were more
human bones on I-5. It was nothing to run across
skulls, lower jaws, or bones of the pelvis and torso.
Arm and leg bones were rarer, but now and then, we
spotted them too.
"I think it's the trucks," Bankole told us. "If they hit
someone along here, they wouldn't stop. They
wouldn't dare. And the junkies and alcoholics
wouldn't be that careful where they walked."
I suppose he's right, although along that whole
empty stretch of road, we saw only four people
whom I believed were either not sober or not sane.
But we saw other things. On Tuesday we camped in
a little hollow back in the hills to the west of the road,
and a big black and white dog came wandering
down toward our camp with the fresh-looking, bloody
hand and forearm of a child in its mouth.
The dog spotted us, froze, turned, and ran back the
way it had come. But we all got a good look before it
went, and we all saw the same thing. That night, we
posted a double watch. Two watchers, two guns, no
unnecessary conversation, no sex.
The next day we decided not to take another rest
day until we had passed through Sacramento. There
was no guarantee that anything would be better on
the other side of Sacramento, but we wanted to get
away from this grim land.
That night, looking for a place to camp, we stumbled
across four ragged, filthy kids huddled around a
campfire. The picture of them is still clear in my
mind. Kids the age of my brothers-- twelve, thirteen,
maybe fourteen years old, three boys and a girl. The
girl was pregnant, and so huge it was obvious she
would be giving birth any day. We rounded a bend in
a dry stream bed, and there these kids were,
roasting a severed human leg, maneuvering it where
it lay in the middle of their fire atop the burning wood
by twisting its foot. As we watched, the girl pulled a
sliver of charred flesh from the thigh and stuffed it
into her mouth.
They never saw us. I was in the lead, and I stopped
the others before they all rounded the bend. Harry
and Zahra, who were just behind me, saw all that I
saw. We turned the others back and away, not
telling them why until we were far from those kids
and their cannibal feast.
No one attacked us. No one bothered us at all. The
country we walked through was even beautiful in
some places-- green trees and rolling hills; golden
dried grasses and tiny communities; farms, many
overgrown and abandoned, and abandoned houses.
Nice country, and compared to Southern California,
rich country. More water, more food, more room. . . .
So why were the people eating one another?
There were several burned out buildings. It was
obvious that there had been trouble here too, but
much less than on the coast. Yet we couldn't wait to
get back to the coast.
Sacramento was all right to resupply in and hurry
through. Water and food were cheap there
compared to what you could buy along the roadside,
of course. Cities were always a relief as far as prices
went. But cities were also dangerous. More gangs,
more cops, more suspicious, nervous people with
guns. You tiptoe through cities. You keep up a
steady pace, keep your eyes open, and try to look
both too intimidating to bother and invisible. Neat
trick. Bankole says cities have been like that for a
long time.
Speaking of Bankole, I haven't let him get much rest
on this rest day. He doesn't seem to mind. He did
say something that I should make note of, though.
He said he wanted me to leave the group with him.
He has, as I suspected, a safe haven-- or as safe as
any haven can be that isn't surrounded by high-tech
security devices and armed guards. It's in the hills
on the coast near Cape Mendocino maybe two
weeks from here.
"My sister and her family have been living there," he
said. "But the property belongs to me. There's room
on it for you."
I could imagine how delighted his sister would be to
see me. Would she try to be polite, or would she
stare at me, then at him, then demand to know
whether he was in his right mind?
"Did you hear what I said?" he demanded.
I looked at him, interested in the anger I heard in his
voice. Why anger?
"What am I doing? Boring you?" he demanded.
I took his hand and kissed it. "You introduce me to
your sister and she'll measure you for a straitjacket."
After a while, he laughed. "Yes." And then, "I don't
care."
"What does she do for a living? Farm the land?"
"Yes, and her husband does odd jobs for cash--
which is dangerous because it leaves her and the
children alone for days, weeks, even months at a
time. If we can manage to support ourselves without
becoming a drain on her few resources, we might be
useful to her. We might give her more security."
"How many kids?"
"Three. Let's see. . .eleven, thirteen, and fifteen
years old by now. She's only forty herself." His
mouth twitched. Only. Yeah. Even his little sister was
old enough to be my mother. "Her name's Alex.
Alexandra. Married to Don Casey. They both hate
cities. They thought my land was a godsend. They
could raise children who might live to grow up." He
nodded. "And their children have done all right."
"How have you kept in touch?" I asked. "Phone?"
"That was part of our agreement," he said. "They
don't have a phone, but when Don goes to one of
the towns to get work, he phones me and lets me
know how everyone is. He won't know what's
happened to me. He won't be expecting me. If he's
tried to phone, both he and Alex will be worried."
"You should have flown up," I said. "But I'm glad you
didn't."
"Are you? So am I. Listen, you are coming with me. I
can't think of anything I want as much as I want you.
I haven't wanted anything at all for a long time. Too
long."
I leaned back against a tree. Our campsite wasn't as
completely private as the one at San Luis had been,
but there were trees, and the couples could get
away from each other. Each couple had one gun,
and the Gilchrist sisters were baby-sitting Dominic
as well as Justin. We had put them in the middle of a
rough triangle and given them my gun. On I-5 they
and Travis had had a chance to do a little target
practice. It was all of our duty to look around now
and then and make sure no strangers wandered into
the area. I looked around.
Sitting up I could see Justin running around, chasing
pigeons. Jill was keeping an eye on him, but not
trying to keep up with him.
Bankole took me by the shoulders and turned me to
face him. "I'm not boring you, am I?" He asked for
the second time.
I had been trying not to look at him. I looked now,
but he had not yet said what he had to say if he
wanted to keep me with him. Did he know? I thought
he did.
"I want to go with you," I said. "But I'm serious about
Earthseed. I couldn't be more serious. You have to
understand that." Why did this sound strange to me?
It was the absolute truth, but I felt odd telling it.
"I know my rival," he said.
Maybe that's why it sounded strange. I was telling
him there was someone else-- something else.
Maybe it would have sounded less strange if the
something were another man.
"You could help me," I said.
"Help you what? Do you have any real idea what
you want to do?"
"Begin the first Earthseed Community."
He sighed.
"You could help me," I repeated. "This world is
falling apart. You could help me begin something
purposeful and constructive."
"Going to fix the world, are you?" he said with quiet
amusement.
I looked at him. For a moment I was too angry to let
myself speak. When I could control my voice, I said,
"It's all right if you don't believe, but don't laugh. Do
you know what it means to have something to
believe in? Don't laugh."
After a while he said, "All right."
After a longer while, I said, "Fixing the world is not
what Earthseed is about."
"The stars. I know." He lay flat on his back, but
turned his head to look at me instead of looking up.
"This world would be a better place if people lived
according to Earthseed," I said. "But then, this world
would be better if people lived according to the
teachings of almost any religion."
"That's true. Why do you think they'll live according
to the teaching of yours?"
"A few will. Several thousand? Several hundred
thousand? Millions? I don't know. But when I have a
home base, I'll begin the first community. In fact, I've
already begun it."
"Is that what you need me for?" He didn't bother to
smile or pretend it was a joke. It wasn't. I moved
over closer to him and sat next to him so that I could
look down into his face.
"I need you to understand me," I said. "I need you to
take me the way I am or go off to your land by
yourself."
"You need me to take you and all your friends off the
street so you can start a church." Again, he was
altogether serious.
"That or nothing," I said with equal seriousness. He
gave me a humorless smile. "So now we know
where we stand."
I smoothed his beard, and saw that he wanted to
move away from my hand, but that he did not move.
"Are you all that sure you want God as your rival?" I
asked.
"I don't seem to have much choice, do I?" He
covered my caressing hand with one of his own.
"Tell me, do you ever lose your temper and scream
and cry?"
"Sure."
"I can't picture it. In all honesty, I can't."
And that reminded me of something that I hadn't told
him, had better tell him before he found out and felt
cheated or decided that I didn't trust him-- which I
still didn't, quite. But I didn't want to lose him to
stupidity or cowardice. I didn't want to lose him at all.
"Still want me with you?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I intend to marry you once we've
settled."
23
Your teachers
Are all around you.
All that you perceive,
All that you experience,
All that is given to you
or taken from you,
All that you love or hate,
need or fear
Will teach youÑ
If you will learn.
God is your first
and your last teacher.
God is your harshest teacher:
subtle,
demanding.
Learn or die.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2027
We had another battle to try to sleep through before
dawn this morning. It began to the south of us out on
or near the highway, and worked its way first toward,
then away from us.
We could hear people shooting, screaming, cursing,
running. . . . Same old stuff-- tiresome, dangerous,
and stupid. The shooting went on for over an hour,
waxing and waning. There was a final barrage that
seemed to involve more guns than ever. Then the
noise stopped.
I managed to sleep through some of it. I got over
being afraid, even got over being angry. In the end, I
was only tired. I thought, if the bastards are going to
kill me, I can't stop them by staying awake. If that
wasn't altogether true, I didn't care. I slept.
And somehow, during or after the battle, in spite of
the watch, two people slipped into our camp and
bedded down among us. They slept too.
We awoke early as usual so that we could start
walking while the heat wasn't too terrible. We've
learned to wake up without prompting at the first light
of dawn. Today, four of us sat up in our bags at
almost the same time. I was crawling out of my bag
to go off and urinate when I spotted the extra
people-- two gray lumps in the dawn light, one large
and one small, lying against each other, asleep on
the bare ground. Thin arms and legs extended like
sticks from rags and mounds of clothing.
I glanced around at the others and saw that they
were staring where I was staring-- all of them except
Jill, who was supposed to be on watch. We began
trusting her to stand night watch last week with a
partner. This was only her second solitary watch.
And where was she looking? Away into the trees.
She and I would have to talk.
Harry and Travis were already reacting to the figures
on the ground. In silence, each man was peeling out
of his bag in his underwear, and standing up. More
fully clothed, I matched them, move for move, and
the three of us closed in around the two intruders.
The larger of the two awoke all at once, jumped up,
darted two or three steps toward Harry, then
stopped. It was a woman. We could see her better
now. She was brown-skinned with a lot of long,
straight, unkept black hair. Her coloring was as dark
as mine, but she was all plains and angles-- a wiry,
hawk-faced woman who could have used a few
decent meals and a good scrubbing. She looked like
a lot of people we've seen on the road.
The second intruder awoke, saw Travis standing
nearby in his underwear, and screamed. That got
everyone's attention. It was the high, piercing shriek
of a child-- a little girl who looked about seven. She
was a tiny, pinched image of the woman-- her
mother, or her sister perhaps.
I could see that. "Just take what we give you and
nothing more than we give you," I said. "That will be
pay enough."
"We won't steal. We aren't thieves."
Of course they were thieves. How else could they
live. Some stealing and scavenging, maybe some
whoring. . . . They weren't very good at it or they'd
look better. But for the little kid's sake, I wanted to
help them at least with a meal.
"Wait, then." I said. "We'll put a meal together."
They sat where they were and watched us with
hungry, hungry eyes. There was more hunger in
those eyes than we could fill with all our food. I
thought I had probably made a mistake. These
people were so desperate, they were dangerous. It
didn't matter at all that they looked harmless. They
were still alive and strong enough to run. They were
not harmless.
It was Justin who eased some of the tension in
those bottomless, hungry eyes. Stark naked, he
toddled over to the woman and the girl and looked
them over. The little girl only stared back, but after a
moment, the woman began to smile. She said
something to Justin, and he smiled. Then he ran
back to Allie who held on to him long enough to
dress him. But he had done his work. The woman
was seeing us with different eyes. She watched
Natividad nursing Dominic, then watched Bankole
combing his beard. This seemed funny to her and to
the child, and they both giggled.
"You're a hit," I told Bankole.
"I don't see what's so funny about a man combing
his beard," he muttered, and put away his comb.
I dug sweet pears out of my pack, and took one
each to the woman and girl. I had just bought them
two days before, and I had only three left. Other
people got the idea and began sharing what they
could spare. Shelled walnuts, apples, a
pomegranate, Valencia oranges, figs. . . . Little
things.
"Save what you can," Natividad told the woman as
she gave her almonds wrapped in a piece of red
cloth. "Wrap things in here and tie the ends
together."
We all shared corn bread made with a little honey
and the hard-boiled eggs we bought and cooked
yesterday. We baked the corn bread in the coals of
last night's fire so that we could get away early this
morning. The woman and the girl ate as though the
plain, cold food were the best they had ever tasted,
as though they couldn't believe someone had given
it to them. They crouched over it as though they
were afraid we might snatch it back.
"We've got to go," I said at last. "The sun's getting
hotter."
The woman looked at me, her strange, sharp face
hungry again, but now not hungry for food.
"Let us go with you," she said, her words tumbling
over one another. "We'll work. We'll get wood, make
fire, clean dishes, anything. Take us with you."
Bankole looked at me. "I assume you saw that
coming."
I nodded. The woman was looking from one of us to
the other.
"Anything," she whispered-- or whimpered. Her eyes
were dry and starved, but tears streamed from the
little girl's eyes.
"Give us a moment to decide," I said. I meant, Go
away so my friends can yell at me in private, but the
woman didn't seem to understand. She didn't move.
"Wait over there," I said, pointing toward the trees
nearest to the road. "Let us talk. Then we'll tell you."
She didn't want to do it. She hesitated, then stood
up, pulled her even more reluctant daughter up, and
trudged off to the trees I had indicated.
"Oh God," Zahra muttered. "We're going to take
them, aren't we?"
"That's what we have to decide," I said.
"What, we feed her, and then we get to tell her to go
away and finish starving?" Zahra made a noise of
disgust.
"If she isn't a thief," Bankole said, "And if she doesn't
have any other dangerous habits, we may be able to
carry them. That little kid. . . ."
"Yes," I said. "Bankole, is there room for them at
your place?"
"His place?" three others asked. I hadn't had a
chance to tell them about it. And I hadn't had the
nerve.
"He has a lot of land up north and over by the coast,"
I said. "There's a family house that we can't live in
because his sister and her family are there. But
there's room and trees and water. He says. . . ." I
swallowed, looked at Bankole who was smiling a
little. "He says we can start Earthseed there-- build
what we can."
"Are there jobs?" Harry asked Bankole.
"My brother-in-law manages with year-round
gardens and temporary jobs. He's raising three kids
that way."
"But the jobs do pay money?"
"Yes, they pay. Not well, but they pay. We'd better
hold off talking about this for a while. We're torturing
that young woman over there."
"She'll steal," Natividad said. "She says she won't,
but she will. You can look at her and tell."
"She's been beaten," Jill said. "The way they rolled
up when we first spotted them. They're used to
being beaten, kicked, knocked around."
"Yeah." Allie looked haunted. "You try to keep from
getting hit in the head, try to protect your eyes and. .
.your front. She thought we would beat her. She and
the kid both."
Interesting that Allie and Jill should understand so
well. What a terrible father they had. And what had
happened to their mother? They had never talked
about her. It was amazing that they had escaped
alive and sane enough to function.
"Should we let her stay?" I asked them.
Both girls nodded. "I think she'll be a pain in the ass
for a while, though," Allie said. "Like Natividad says,
she'll steal. She won't be able to stop herself. We'll
have to watch her real good. That little kid will steal
too. Steal and run like hell."
Zahra grinned. "Reminds me of me at that age.
They'll both be pains in the ass. I vote we try them. If
they have manners or if they can learn manners, we
keep them. If they're too stupid to learn, we throw
them out."
I looked at Travis and Harry, standing together.
"What do you guys say?"
"The next one might." I leaned toward her. "The
world is full of crazy, dangerous people. We see
signs of that every day. If we don't watch out for
ourselves, they will rob us, kill us, and maybe eat us.
It's a world gone to hell, Jill, and we've only got each
other to keep it off us."
Sullen silence.
I reached out and took her hand. "Jill."
"It wasn't my fault!" she said. "You can't prove I-- "
"Jill!"
She shut up and stared at me.
"Listen, no one is going to beat you up, for heaven
sake, but you did something wrong, something
dangerous. You know you did."
"So what do you want her to do?" Allie demanded.
"Get on her knees and say she's sorry?"
"I want her to love her own life and yours enough not
to be careless. That's what I want. That's what you
should want, now more than ever. Jill?"
Jill closed her eyes. "Oh shit!" she said. And then,
"All right, all right! I didn't see them. I really didn't. I'll
watch better. No one else will get by me."
I clasped her hand for a moment longer, then let it
go. "Okay. Let's get out of here. Let's collect that
scared woman and her scared little kid and get out
of here."
The two scared people turned out to be the most
racially mixed that I had ever met. Here's their story,
put together from the fragments they told us during
the day and tonight. The woman had a Japanese
father, a black mother, and a Mexican husband, all
dead. Only she and her daughter are left. Her name
is Emery Tanaka Solis. Her daughter is Tori Solis.
Tori is nine years old, not seven as I had guessed. I
suspect she has rarely had enough to eat in her life.
She's tiny, quick, quiet, and hungry-eyed. She hid
bits of food in her filthy rags until we made her a new
dress from one of Bankole's shirts. Then she hid
food in that. Although Tori is nine, her mother is only
23. At 13, Emery married a much older man who
promised to take care of her. Her father was already
dead, killed in someone else's gunfight. Her mother
was sick, and dying of tuberculosis. The mother
pushed Emery into marriage to save her from
victimization and starvation in the streets.
Up to that point, the situation was dreary, but
normal. Emery had three children over the next three
years-- a daughter and two sons. She and her
husband did farm work in trade for food, shelter, and
hand-me-downs. Then the farm was sold to a big
agribusiness conglomerate, and the workers fell into
new hands. Wages were paid, but in company scrip,
not in cash. Rent was charged for the workers'
shacks. Workers had to pay for food, for clothing--
new or used-- for everything they needed, and, of
course they could only spend their company notes at
the company store. Wages-- surprise!-- were never
quite enough to pay the bills. According to new laws
that might or might not exist, people were not
permitted to leave an employer to whom they owed
money. They were obligated to work off the debt
either as quasi-indentured people or as convicts.
That is, if they refused to work, they could be
arrested, jailed, and in the end, handed over to their
employers.
.
Either way, such debt slaves could be forced to work
longer hours for less pay, could be "disciplined" if
they failed to meet their quotas, could be traded and
sold with or without their consent, with or without
their families, to distant employers who had
temporary or permanent need of them. Worse,
children could be forced to work off the debt of their
parents if the parents died, became disabled, or
escaped.
Emery's husband sickened and died. There was no
doctor, no medicine beyond a few expensive
over-the-counter preparations and the herbs that the
workers grew in their tiny gardens. Jorge Francisco
Solis died in fever and pain on the earthen floor of
his shack without ever seeing a doctor. Bankole said
it sounded as though he died of peritonitis brought
on by untreated appendicitis. Such a simple thing.
But then, there's nothing more replaceable than
unskilled labor.
Emery and her children became responsible for the
Solis debt. Accepting this, Emery worked and
endured until one day, without warning, her sons
were taken away. They were one and two years
younger than her daughter, and too young to be
without both their parents. Yet they were taken.
Emery was not asked to part with them, nor was she
told what would be done with them. She had terrible
suspicions when she recovered from the drug she
had been given to "quiet her down." She cried and
demanded the return of her sons and would not
work again until her masters threatened to take her
daughter as well.
She decided then to run away, to take her daughter
and brave the roads with their thieves, rapists, and
cannibals. They had nothing for anyone to steal, and
rape wasn't something they could escape by
remaining slaves. As for the cannibals. . .well,
perhaps they were only fantasies-- lies intended to
frighten slaves into accepting their lot.
"There are cannibals," I told her as we ate that night.
"We've seen them. I think, though, that they're
scavengers, not killers. They take advantage of road
kills, that kind of thing."
"Scavengers kill," Emery said. "If you get hurt or if
you look sick, they come after you."
I nodded, and she went on with her story. Late one
night, she and Tori slipped out past the armed
guards and electrified fences, the sound and motion
detectors and the dogs. Both knew how to be quiet,
how to fade from cover to cover, how to lie still for
hours. Both were very fast. Slaves learned things
like that-- the ones who lived did. Emery and Tori
must have been very lucky.
Emery had some notion of finding her sons and
getting them back, but she had no idea where they
had been taken. They had been driven away in a
truck; she knew that much. But she didn't know even
which way the truck turned when it reached the
highway. Her parents had taught her to read and
write, but she had seen no writing about her sons.
She had to admit after a while that all she could do
was save her daughter.
Living on wild plants and whatever they could "find"
or beg, they drifted north. That was the way Emery
said it: they found things. Well, if I were in her place,
I would have found a few things, too.
A gang fight drove her to us. Gangs are always a
special danger in cities. If you keep to the road while
you're in individual gang territories, you might
escape their attentions. We have so far. But the
overgrown park land where we camped last night
was, according to Emery, in dispute. Two gangs shot
at each other and called insults and accusations
back and forth. Now and then they stopped to shoot
at passing trucks. During one of these intervals,
Emery and Tori who had camped close to the
roadside had slipped away.
"One group was coming closer to us," Emery said.
"They would shoot and run. When they ran, they got
closer. We had to get away. We couldn't let them
hear us or see us. We found your clearing, but we
didn't see you. You know how to hide."
That, I suppose was a compliment. We try to
disappear into the scenery when that's possible.
Most of the time it isn't. Tonight it isn't. And tonight
we watch two at a time.
"He doesn't trust us. Why should he? We'll have to
watch all four of them for a while. They're. . .odd.
They might be stupid enough to try to grab some of
our packs and leave some night. Or it might just be a
matter of little things starting to disappear. The
children are more likely to get caught at it. Yet if the
adults stay, it will be for the children's sake. If we
take it easy on the children and protect them, I think
the adults will be loyal to us."
"So we become the crew of a modern underground
railroad," I said. Slavery again-- even worse than my
father thought, or at least sooner. He thought it
would take a while.
"None of this is new." Bankole made himself
comfortable against me. "In the early l990s while I
was in college, I heard about cases of growers doing
some of this-- holding people against their wills and
forcing them to work without pay. Latins in California,
blacks and Latins in the south. . . . Now and then,
someone would go to jail for it."
"But Emery says there's a new law-- that forcing
people or their children to work off debt that they
can't help running up is legal."
"Maybe. It's hard to know what to believe. I suppose
the politicians may have passed a law that could be
used to support debt slavery. But I've heard nothing
about it. Anyone dirty enough to be a slaver is dirty
enough to tell a pack of lies. You realize that that
woman's children were sold like cattle-- and no
doubt sold into prostitution."
I nodded. "She knows too."
"Yes. My God."
"Things are breaking down more and more." I
paused. "I'll tell you, though, if we can convince
ex-slaves that they can have freedom with us, no
one will fight harder to keep it. We need better guns,
though. And we need to be so careful. . . . It keeps
getting more dangerous out here. It will be especially
dangerous with those little girls around."
"Those two know how to be quiet," Bankole said.
"They're little rabbits, fast and silent. That's why
they're still alive."
24
Respect God:
Pray working.
Pray learning,
planning,
doing.
Pray creating,
teaching,
reaching.
Pray working.
Pray to focus your thoughts,
still your fears,
strengthen your prupose.
Respect God.
Shape God.
Pray working.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2027
We read some verses and talked about Earthseed
for a while this morning. It was a calming thing to
do-- almost like church. We needed something
calming and reassuring. Even the new people joined
in, asking questions, thinking aloud, applying the
verses to their experiences.
God is Change, and in the end, God does prevail.
But we have something to say about the whens and
the whys of that end.
Yeah .
It's been a horrible week.
We've taken both today and yesterday as rest days.
We might take tomorrow as well. I need it whether
the others do or not. We're all sore and sick, in
mourning and exhausted-- yet triumphant. Odd to be
triumphant. I think it's because most of us are still
alive. We are a harvest of survivors. But then, that's
what we've always been.
This is what happened.
At our noon stop on Tuesday, Tori and Doe, the two
little girls, went away from the group to urinate.
Emery went with them. She had kind of taken charge
of Doe as well as her own daughter. The night
before, she and Grayson Mora had slipped away
from the group and stayed away for over an hour.
Harry and I were on watch, and we saw them go.
Now they were a couple-- all over each other, but at
arm's length from everyone else. Strange people.
So Emery took the girls off to pee-- not far away.
Just across the hill face and out of sight behind a
patch of dead bushes and tall, dry grass. The rest of
us sat eating, drinking, and sweating in what shade
we could get from a copse of oak trees that looked
only half dead. The trees had been robbed of a great
number of branches, no doubt by people needing
firewood. I was looking at their many jagged wounds
when the screaming began.
First there were the high, needle thin, needle sharp
shrieks of the little girls, then we heard Emery
shouting for help. Then we heard a man's voice,
cursing.
I died with someone else. Someone laid hands on
me and I came within a finger's twitch of squeezing
the trigger once more.
Bankole.
"You stupid asshole!" I whimpered. "I almost killed
you."
"You're bleeding," he said.
I was surprised. I tried to remember whether I'd been
shot. Maybe I had just come down on a sharp piece
of wood. I had no sense of my own body. I hurt, but I
couldn't have said where-- or even whether the pain
was mine or someone else's. The pain was intense,
yet diffuse somehow. I felt. .. disembodied.
"Is everyone else all right?" I asked.
"Be still," he said.
"Is it over, Bankole?"
"Yes. The survivors have run away."
"Take my gun, then, and give it to Natividad-- in
case they decide to come back."
I think I felt him take the gun from my hand. I heard
muffled talk that I didn't quite understand. That was
when I realized I was losing consciousness. All right
then. At least I had held on long enough to do some
good.
Jill Gilchrist is dead.
She was shot in the back as she ran toward the
trees carrying Tori. Bankole didn't tell me, didn't want
me to know before I had to because, as it turned out,
I was wounded myself. I was lucky. My wound was
minor. It hurt, but other than that, it didn't matter
much. Jill was unlucky. I found out about her death
when I came to and heard Allie's hoarse screaming
grief.
Jill had gotten Tori back to the trees, put her down,
then, without a sound, folded to the ground as
though taking cover. Emery had grabbed Tori and
huddled, crying with her in terror and relief.
Everyone else had been busy, first taking cover,
then firing or directing fire. Travis was the first to see
the blood pooling around Jill. He shouted for
Bankole, then turned Jill onto her back and saw
blood welling from what turned out to be an exit
wound in her chest. Bankole says she died before
he reached her, No last words, no last sight of her
sister, not even the assurance that she had saved
the little girl. She had. Tori was bruised, but fine.
Everyone was fine except Jill.
My own wound, to be honest, was a big scratch. A
bullet had plowed a furrow straight through the flesh
of my left side, leaving little damage, a lot of blood, a
couple of holes in my shirt, and a lot of pain. The
wound throbbed worse than a burn, but it wasn't
disabling.
"Cowboy wound," Harry said when he and Zahra
came to look me over. They looked dirty and
miserable, but Harry tried to be upbeat for me. They
had just helped to bury Jill. The group had, with
hands, sticks, and our hatchet, dug a shallow grave
for her while I was unconscious. They put her among
the trees' roots, covered her, and rolled big rocks
atop her grave. The trees were to have her, but the
dogs and the cannibals were not.
The group had decided to bed down for the night
where we were, even though our oak copse should
have been rejected as an overnight camp because it
was too close to the highway.
"You're a goddamn fool and too big to carry," Zahra
told me. "So just rest there and let Bankole take care
of you. Not that anyone could stop him."
"You've just got a cowboy wound," Harry repeated.
"In that book I bought, people are always getting
shot in the side or the arm or the shoulder, and it's
nothing-- although Bankole says a good percentage
of them would have died of tetanus or some other
infection."
"Thanks for the encouragement," I said.
Zahra gave him a look, then patted my arm. "Don't
worry," she said. "No germ will get past that old man.
He's mad as hell at you for getting yourself shot.
Says if you had any sense, you would have stayed
back here with the babies."
"What?"
"Hey, he's old," Harry said. "What do you expect."
I sighed. "How's Allie?"
"Crying." He shook his head. "She won't let anyone
near her except Justin. Even he keeps trying to
comfort her. It upsets him that she's crying."
"Emery and Tori are kind of beaten up, too," Zahra
said. "They're the other reason we're not moving."
She paused. "Hey, Lauren, you ever notice anything
funny about those two-- Emery and Tori, I mean?
And about that guy Mora, too."
"How many times did you die?" Mora asked me.
"Three at least," I answered, as though this were a
sane conversation. "Maybe four. I never did it like
that before-- over and over. Insane. But you look
well enough."
His expression hardened as though I'd slapped him.
Of course, I had insulted him. I'd said, Where were
you, man and fellow sharer, while your woman and
your group were in danger. Funny. There I was,
speaking a language I hadn't realized I knew.
"I had to get Doe out of danger," he said. "I had no
gun, anyway."
"Can you shoot?"
He hesitated. "Never shot before," he admitted,
dropping his voice to a mumble. Again I'd shamed
him-- this time without meaning to.
"When we teach you to shoot, will you, to protect the
group?"
"Yeah!" Though at that moment, I think he would
have preferred to shoot me.
"It hurts like hell," I warned.
He shrugged. "Most things do."
I looked into his thin, angry face. Were all slaves so
thin-- underfed, overworked, and taught that most
things hurt? "Are you from this area?"
"Born in Sacramento."
"Then we need all the information you can give us.
Even without a gun, we need you to help us survive
here."
"My information is to get out of here before those
things up the hill throw paint on themselves and start
shooting people and setting fires."
"Oh, shit," I said. "So that's what they are."
"What'd you think they were?"
"I didn't have a chance to think about them. It
wouldn't have mattered anyway. Harry, did you guys
strip the dead?"
"Yeah." He gave me a thin smile. "We got another
gun-- a .38. I put some stuff in your pack from the
ones you killed."
"Thank you. I don't know that I can carry my pack
yet. Maybe Bankole-- "
"He's already got it on his cart. Let's go."
We headed out toward the road.
"Is that how you do it?" Grayson Mora asked,
walking next to me. "Whoever kills takes?"
"Yes, but we don't kill unless someone threatens
us," I said. "We don't hunt people. We don't eat
human flesh. We fight together against enemies. If
one of us is in need, the rest help out. And we don't
steal from one another, ever."
"Emery said that. I didn't believe her at first."
"Will you live as we do?"
". . .yeah. I guess so."
I hesitated. "So what else is wrong? I can see that
you don't trust us, even now."
He walked closer to me, but did not touch me.
"Where'd that white man come from?" he
demanded.
"I've known him all my life," I said. "He and I and the
others have kept one another alive for a long time,
now."
"But. . .him and those others, they don't feel
anything. You're the only one who feels."
"We call it sharing. I'm the only one."
"But they. . . . You. . . ."
"We help each other. A group is strong. One or two
people are easier to rob and kill."
"Yeah." He looked around at the others. There was
no great trust or liking in his expression, but he
looked more relaxed, more satisfied. He looked as
though he had solved a troubling puzzle.
Testing him, I let myself stumble. It was easy. I still
had little feeling in my feet and legs.
Mora stepped aside. He didn't touch me or offer
help. Sweet guy.
I left Mora, went over to Allie, and walked with her
for a while. Her grief and resentment were like a wall
against me-- against everyone, I suppose, but I was
the one bothering her at the moment. And I was
alive and her sister was dead, and her sister was the
only family she had left, and why didn't I just get the
hell out of her face?
She never said anything. She just pretended I wasn't
there. She pushed Justin along in his carriage and
wiped tears from her stony face now and then with a
swift, whiplike motion. She was hurting herself, doing
that. She was rubbing her face too hard, too fast,
rubbing it raw. She was hurting me too, and I didn't
need any more pain. I stayed with her, though, until
her defenses began to crumble under a new wave of
crippling grief. She stopped hurting herself and just
let the tears run down her face, let them fall to her
chest or to the broken blacktop. She seemed to sag
under a sudden weight.
I hugged her then. I put my hands on her shoulders
and stopped her half-blind plodding. When she
swung around to face me, hostile and hurting, I
hugged her. She could have broken free. I was
feeling far from strong just then, but after a first
angry pulling away, she hung on to me and moaned.
I've never heard anyone moan like that. She cried
and moaned there at the roadside, and the others
stopped and waited for us. No one spoke. Justin
began to whimper and Natividad came back to
comfort him. The wordless message was the same
for both child and woman: In spite of your loss and
pain, you aren't alone. You still have people who
care about you and want you to be all right. You still
have family.
She nodded, then glanced sidelong at Bankole.
"He knows," I assured her. "But. . .look, you and
Grayson are the first sharers I've known who had
children." There was no reason to tell her she and
Grayson and their children were the first sharers I'd
known period. "I hope to have kids myself someday,
so I need to know. . .do they always inherit the
sharing?"
"One of my boys didn't have it," she said. "Some
feelers-- sharers-- can't have any kids. I don't know
why. And I knew some who had two or three kids
who didn't have it at all. Bosses, though, they like
you to have it."
"I'll bet they do."
"Sometimes," she continued, "sometimes they pay
more for people who have it. Especially kids."
Her kids. Yet they had taken a boy who wasn't a
sharer and left a girl who was. How long would it
have been before they came back for the girl?
Perhaps they had a lucrative offer for the boys as a
pair, so they sold them first.
"My god," Bankole said. "This country has slipped
back 200 years."
"Things were better when I was little," Emery said.
"My mother always said they would get better again.
Good times would come back. She said they always
did. My father would shake his head and not say
anything." She looked around to see where Tori was
and spotted her on Grayson Mora's shoulders. Then
she caught sight of something else, and she gasped.
We followed her gaze and saw fire creeping over the
hills behind us-- far behind us, but not far enough.
This was some new fire, whipping along in the dry
evening breeze. Either the people who attacked us
had followed us, setting fires, or someone was
imitating them, echoing them.
We went on, moving faster, trying to see where we
could go to be safe. On either side of the highway,
there was dry grass, there were trees, living and
dead. So far, the fire was only on the north side.
We kept to the south side, hoping it would be safe.
There was a lake ahead, according to my map of the
area-- Clear Lake, it was called. The map showed it
to be large, and the highway followed its northern
shore for a few miles. We would reach it soon. How
soon?
I calculated as we walked. Tomorrow. We should be
able to camp near it tomorrow evening. Not soon
enough.
I could smell the smoke now. Did that mean the wind
was blowing the fire toward us?
Other people began hurrying and keeping to the
south side of the road and heading west. No one
went east now. There were no trucks yet, but it was
getting late. They would be barreling through soon.
And we should be camping for the night soon. Did
we dare?
The south side still seemed free of fire behind us,
but on the north side the fire crawled after us,
coming no closer, but refusing to be left behind.
We went on for a while, all of us looking back often,
all of us tired, some of us hurting. I called a halt and
gestured us off the road to the south at a place
where there was room to sit and rest.
"We can't stay here," Mora said. "The fire could jump
the road any time."
"We can rest here for a few moments," I said. "We
can see the fire, and it will tell us when we'd better
start walking again."
"We'd better start now!" Mora said. "If that fire gets
going good, it will move faster than we can run! Best
to keep well ahead of it!"
"Best to have the strength to keep ahead of it," I
said, and I took a water bottle from my pack and
drank. We were within sight of the road and we had
made it a rule not to eat or drink in such exposed
places, but today that rule had to be suspended. To
go into the hills away from the road might mean
being cut off from the road by fire. We couldn't know
when or where a windblown piece of burning debris
might land.
Others followed my example and drank and ate a
little dried fruit, meat, and bread. Bankole and I
shared with Emery and Tori. Mora seemed to want
to leave in spite of us, but his daughter Doe was
sitting half asleep on the ground against Zahra. He
stooped next to her and made her drink a little water
and eat some fruit.
"We might have to keep moving all night," Allie said,
her voice almost too soft to hear. "This might be the
only rest we get." And to Travis, "You'd better put
Dominic into the carriage with Justin when he's
finished eating."
Travis nodded. He'd carried Dominic this far. Now he
tucked him in with Justin. "I'll push the carriage for a
while," he said.
Bankole looked at my wound, rebandaged it, and
this time gave me something for the pain. He buried
the bloody bandages he had removed, digging a
shallow hole with a flat rock.
Emery, with Tori gone to sleep against her, looked to
see what Bankole was doing with me, then jumped
and looked away, her hand going to her own side.
"I didn't know you were hurt so much," she
whispered.
"I'm not," I said, and made myself smile. "It looks
nastier than it is with all the blood, but it isn't bad. I'm
damned lucky compared to Jill. And it doesn't stop
me from walking."
"You didn't give me any pain when we were
walking," she said.
I nodded, glad to know I could fake her out. "It's
ugly," I said,"but not too painful."
She settled down as though she felt better. No doubt
she did. If I moaned and groaned, I'd have all four of
them moaning and groaning. The kids might even
bleed along with me. I would have to be careful and
keep lying at least as long as the fire was a threat--
or as long as I could.
The truth was, those blood-saturated bandages
scared the hell out of me, and the wound hurt worse
than ever. But I knew I had to keep going or burn.
After a few minutes, Bankole's pills began to take
the edge off my pain, and that made the whole world
easier to endure.
We had about an hour's rest before the fire made us
too nervous to stay where we were. Then we got up
and walked. By then, at some point behind us, the
fire had already jumped the road. Now, neither the
north nor the south side looked safe. Until it was
dark, all we could see in the hills behind us was
smoke. It was a terrifying, looming, moving wall.
Later, after dark, we could see the fire eating its way
toward us. There were dogs running along the road
with us, but they paid no attention to us. Cats and
deer ran past us, and a skunk scuttled by. It was live
and let live. Neither humans nor animals were
foolish enough to waste time attacking one another.
Behind us and to the north, the fire began to roar.
We put Tori in the carriage and Justin and Dominic
between her legs. The babies never even woke up
while we were moving them. Tori herself was more
than half asleep. I worried that the carriage might
break down with the extra weight, but it held. Travis,
Harry, and Allie traded off pushing it.
Doe, we put atop the load on Bankole's cart. She
couldn't have been comfortable there, but she didn't
complain. She was more awake than Tori, and she
had been walking on her own most of the time since
our encounter with the would-be kidnappers. She
was a strong little kid-- her father's daughter.
Grayson Mora helped push Bankole's cart. In fact,
once Doe was loaded aboard, Mora pushed the cart
most of the time. The man wasn't likeable, but in his
love for his daughter, he was admirable.
At some point in the endless night, more smoke and
ash than ever began to swirl around us, and I caught
myself thinking that we might not make it. Without
stopping, we wet shirts, scarves, whatever we had,
and tied them around our noses and mouths.
The fire roared and thundered its way past us on the
north, singeing our hair and clothing, making
breathing a terrible effort. The babies woke up and
screamed in fear and pain, then choked and almost
brought me down. Tori, crying herself with their pain
and her own, held on to them and would not let them
struggle out of the carriage.
I thought we would die. I believed there was no way
for us to survive this sea of fire, hot wind, smoke,
and ash. I saw people-- strangers-- fall, and we left
them lying on the highway, waiting to burn. I stopped
looking back. In the roar of the fire, I could not hear
whether they screamed. I could see the babies
before Natividad threw wet rags over them. I knew
they were screaming. Then I couldn't see them, and
it was a blessing.
We began to run out of water.
There was nothing to do except keep going or burn.
The terrible, deafening noise of the fire increased,
then lessened, and again, increased, then lessened.
It seemed that the fire went north away from the
road, then whipped back down toward us.
It teased like a living, malevolent thing, intent on
causing pain and terror. It drove us before it like
dogs chasing a rabbit. Yet it didn't eat us. It could
have, but it didn't.
In the end, the worst of it roared off to the northwest.
Firestorm, Bankole called it later. Yes. Like a
tornado of fire, roaring around, just missing us,
playing with us, then letting us live.
We could not rest. There was still fire. Little fires that
could grow into big ones, smoke, blinding and
choking smoke. . . . No rest.
But we could slow down. We could emerge from the
worst of the smoke and ash, and escape the lash of
hot winds. We could pause by the side of the road
for a moment, and gag in peace. There was a lot of
gagging. Coughing and gagging and crying muddy
tracks onto our faces. It was incredible. We were
going to survive. We were still alive and together--
scorched and miserable, in great need of water, but
alive. We were going to make it.
Later, when we dared, we went off the road,
unloaded my pack from Bankole's cart, and dug out
his extra water bottle. He dug it out. He'd told us he
had it when he could have kept it for himself.
"We'll reach Clear Lake sometime tomorrow," I said.
"Early tomorrow, I think. I don't know how far we've
come or where we are now, so I can only guess that
we'll get there early. But it is there waiting for us
tomorrow."
People grunted or coughed and downed swallows
from Bankole's extra bottle. The kids had to be
prevented from guzzling too much water. As it was,
Dominic choked and began to cry again.
We camped where we were, within sight of the road.
Two of us had to stay awake on watch. I volunteered
for first watch because I was in too much pain to
sleep. I got my gun back from Natividad, checked to
see that she had reloaded it-- she had-- and looked
around for a partner.
"I'll watch with you, " Grayson Mora said.
That surprised me. I would have preferred someone
who knew how to use a gun-- someone I would trust
with a gun.
"I'm not going to be able to sleep until you do," he
said. "It's that simple. So let's both put our pain to
good use."
I looked at Emery and the two girls to see whether
they'd heard, but they seemed to be already asleep.
"All right." I said. "We've got to watch for strangers
and fire. Give me a yell if you see anything unusual."
"Give me a gun," he said. "If anybody comes close, I
can at least use it to scare them."
In the dark, sure. "No gun," I said. "Not yet. You
don't know enough yet."
He stared at me for several seconds, then went over
to Bankole. He turned his back to me as he spoke to
Bankole. "Look, you know I need a gun to do any
guarding in a place like this. She doesn't know how it
is. She thinks she does, but she doesn't."
Bankole shrugged. "If you can't do it, man, go to
sleep. One of us will take the watch with her."
"Shit," Mora made the word long and nasty. "Shiiit.
First time I saw her, I knew she was a man. Just
didn't know she was the only man here."
Absolute silence.
Doe Mora saved the situation to the degree that it
could be saved. At that moment she stepped up
behind her father and tapped him on the back. He
spun around, more than ready to fight, spun with
such speed and fury that the little girl squealed and
jumped back.
"What the hell are you doing up!" he shouted. "What
do you want!"
Frightened, the little girl just stared at him. After a
moment, she extended her hand, offering a
pomegranate. "Zahra said we could have this," she
whispered. "Would you cut it?"
Good thinking, Zahra! I didn't turn to look at her, but I
was aware of her watching. By now, everyone still
awake was watching.
"Everyone's tired and everyone's hurting," I told him.
"Everyone, not just you. But we've managed to keep
ourselves alive by working together and by not doing
or saying stupid things."
"And if that's not good enough for you," Bankole
added, in a voice low and ugly with anger, "tomorrow
you can go out and find yourself a different kind of
group to travel with-- a group too goddamn macho to
waste its time saving your child's life twice in one
day."
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 2027
Somehow, we've reached our new home-- Bankole's
land in the coastal hills of Humbolt County. The
highway-- U.S. 101-- is to the east and north of us,
and Cape Mendocino and the sea are to the west. A
few miles south are state parks filled with huge
redwood trees and hoards of squatters. The land
surrounding us, however, is as empty and wild as
any I've seen. It's covered with dry brush, trees, and
tree stumps, all far removed from any city, and a
long, hilly walk from the little towns that line the
highway. There's farming around here, and logging,
and just plain isolated living. According to Bankole,
it's best to mind your own business and not pay too
much attention to how people on neighboring plots
of land earn a living. If they hijack trucks on 101,
grow marijuana, distill whisky, or brew up more
complicated illegal substances. . . . Well, live and let
live.
Bankole guided us along a narrow blacktopped road
that soon became a narrow dirt road. We saw a few
cultivated fields, some scars left by past fires or
logging, and a lot of land that seemed unused. The
road all but vanished before we came to the end of
it. Good for isolation. Bad for getting things in or out.
Bad for traveling back and forth to get work. Bankole
had said his brother-in-law had to spend a lot of time
in various towns, away from his family. That was
easier to understand now. There's no possibility here
of coming home every day or two. So what did you
have to do to save cash? Sleep in doorways or
parks in town? Maybe it was worth the
inconvenience to do just that if you could keep your
family together and safe-- far from the desperate, the
crazy, and the vicious.
Or that's what I thought until we reached the hillside
where Bankole's sister's house and outbuildings
were supposed to be.
There was no house. There were no buildings.
There was almost nothing: A broad black smear on
the hillside; a few charred planks sticking up from
the rubble, some leaning against others; and a tall
brick chimney, standing black and solitary like a
tombstone in a picture of an old-style graveyard. A
tombstone amid the bones and ashes.
25
Create no images of God.
Accept the images
that God has provided.
They are everywhere,
in everything.
God is ChangeÑ
Seed to tree,
tree to forest;
Rain to river,
river to sea;
Grubs to bees,
bees to swarm.
From one, many;
from many, one;
Forever uniting, growing, dissolvingÑ
forever Changing.
The universe
is God's self-portrait.
EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2027
We've been arguing all week about whether or not
we should stay here with the bones and ashes.
We've found five skulls-- three in what was left of the
house and two outside. There were other scattered
bones, but not one complete skeleton. Dogs have
been at the bones-- dogs and cannibals, perhaps.
The fire happened long enough ago for weeds to
begin to grow in the rubble. Two months ago?
Three? Some of the far-flung neighbors might know.
Some of the far-flung neighbors might have set the
fire.
There was no way to be certain, but I assumed that
the bones belonged to Bankole's sister and her
family. I think Bankole assumed that too, but he
couldn't bring himself to just bury the bones and
write off his sister. The day after we got here, he and
Harry hiked back to Glory, the nearest small town
that we had passed through, to talk to the local cops.
They were, or they professed to be, sheriff's
deputies. I wonder what you have to do to become a
cop. I wonder what a badge is, other than a license
to steal. What did it used to be to make people
Bankole's age want to trust it. I know what the old
books say, but still, I wonder.
The deputies all but ignored Bankole's story and his
questions. They wrote nothing down, claimed to
know nothing. They treated Bankole as though they
doubted that he even had a sister, or that he was
who he said he was. So many stolen IDs these days.
They searched him and took the cash he was
carrying. Fees for police services, they said. He had
been careful to carry only what he thought would be
enough to keep them sweet-tempered, but not
enough to make them suspicious or more greedy
than they already were. The rest-- a sizable packet--
he left with me. He trusted me enough to do that. His
gun he left with Harry who had gone shopping.
Jail for Bankole could have meant being sold into a
period of hard, unpaid labor-- slavery. Perhaps if he
had been younger, the deputies might have taken
his money and arrested him anyway on some
trumped-up charge. I had begged him not to go, not
to trust any police or government official. It seemed
to me such people were no better than gangs with
their robbing and slaving.
Bankole agreed with me, yet he insisted on going.
"She was my little sister," he said. "I have to try, at
least, to find out what happened to her. I need to
know who did this. Most of all, I need to know
whether any of her children could have survived.
One or more of those five skulls could have
belonged to the arsonists." He stared at the
collection of bones. "I have to risk going to the
sheriff's office," he continued. "But you don't. I don't
want you with me. I don't want them getting any
ideas about you, maybe finding out by accident that
you're a sharer. I don't want my sister's death to cost
you your life or your freedom."
We fought about it. I was afraid for him; he was
afraid for me, and we were both angrier than we had
ever been at each other. I was terrified that he would
be killed or arrested, and we'd never find out what
happened to him. No one should travel alone in this
world.
"Look," he said at last, "you can do some good here
with the group. You'll have one of the four guns left
here, and you know how to survive. You're needed
here. If the cops decide they want me, you won't be
able to do a thing. Worse, if they decide they want
you, there'll be nothing I can do except take
revenge, and be killed for it."
That slowed me down-- the thought that I might
cause his death instead of backing him up. I didn't
quite believe it, but it slowed me down. Harry
stepped in then and said he would go. He wanted to
anyway. He could buy some things for the group,
and he wanted to look for a job. He wanted to earn
some money.
"I'll do what I can," he told me just before they left.
"He's not a bad old guy. I'll bring him back to you."
They brought each other back, Bankole a few
thousand dollars poorer, and Harry still jobless--
though they did bring back supplies and a few hand
tools. Bankole knew no more than he had when he
left about his sister and her family, but the cops had
said they would come out to investigate the fire and
the bones.
We worried that sooner or later, they might show up.
We're still keeping a lookout for them, and we've
hidden-- buried-- most of our valuables. We want to
bury the bones, but we don't dare. It's bothering
Bankole. Bothering him a lot. I've suggested we hold
a funeral and go ahead and bury the bones. The hell
with the cops. But he says no. Best to give them as
little provocation as possible. If they came, they
would do enough harm with their stealing. Best not
to give them reason to do more.
There's a well with an old-fashioned hand pump
under the rubble of an outbuilding. It still works. The
solar-powered electric pump near the house does
not. We couldn't stay here long without a
dependable water source. With the well, though, it's
hard to leave-- hard to walk away from possible
sanctuary-- in spite of arsonists and cops.
Bankole owns this land, free and clear. There's a
huge, half ruined garden plus citrus trees full of
unripe fruit. We've already been pulling carrots and
digging potatoes here. There are plenty of other fruit
and nut trees plus wild pines, redwoods, and
Douglas firs. None of these last were very big. This
area was logged sometime before Bankole bought it.
Bankole says it was clear-cut back in the 1980s or
l990s, but we can make use of the trees that have
grown since then, and we can plant more. We can
build a shelter, put in a winter garden from the seed
I've been carrying and collecting since we left home.
Granted, a lot of it is old seed. I hadn't renewed it as
often as I should have while I was at home. Strange
that I hadn't. Things kept getting worse and worse at
home, yet I had paid less and less attention to the
pack that was supposed to save my life when the
mob came. There was so much else to worry about--
and I think I was into my own brand of denial, as bad
in its way as Cory's or Joanne's mother's. But all that
feels like ancient history. Now was what we had to
worry about. What were we going to do now?
"I don't think we can make it here," Harry said earlier
this evening as we sat around the campfire. There
should be something cheerful about sitting around a
campfire with friends and a full stomach. We even
had meat tonight fresh meat. Bankole took the rifle
and went off by himself for a while. When he came
back, he brought three rabbits which Zahra and I
skinned, cleaned, and roasted. We also roasted
sweet potatoes that we had dug out of the garden.
We should have been content. Yet all we were doing
was rehashing what had become an old argument
over the past few days. Perhaps it was the bones
and ashes just over the rise that were bothering us.
We had camped out of sight of the burned area in
the hope of recovering a little peace of mind, but it
hadn't helped. I was thinking that we should figure
out a way to capture a few wild rabbits alive and
breed them for a sure meat supply. Was that
possible? Why not, if we stay here? And we should
stay.
"Nothing we find farther north will be any better or
any safer than this," I said. "It will be hard to live
here, but if we work together, and if we're careful, it
should be possible. We can build a community
here."
"Oh, god, there she goes with her Earthseed shit
again," Allie said. But she smiled a little as she said
it. That was good. She hadn't smiled much lately.
"We can build a community here," I repeated. "It's
dangerous, sure, but, hell, it's dangerous
everywhere, and the more people there are packed
together in cities, the more danger there is. This is a
ridiculous place to build a community. It's isolated,
miles from everywhere with no decent road leading
here, but for us, for now, it's perfect."
"Except that someone burned this place down last
time," Grayson Mora said. "Anything we build out
here by itself is a target."
"Anything we build anywhere is a target," Zahra
argued. "But the people out here before. . . . I'm
sorry Bankole, I gotta say this: They couldn't have
kept a good watch-- a man and a woman and three
kids. They would have worked hard all day, then
slept all night. It would have been too hard on just
two grown people to try to sit up and watch for half
the night each."
"They didn't keep a night watch," Bankole said.
"We'll have to keep one, though. And we could use a
couple of dogs. If we could get them as puppies and
train them to guard-- "
"Give meat to dogs?" Mora demanded, outraged.
"Not soon." Bankole shrugged. "Not until we have
enough for ourselves. But if we can get dogs, they'll
help us keep the rest of our goods."
"I wouldn't give a dog nothing but a bullet or a rock,"
Mora said. "I saw dogs eat a woman once."
"There are no jobs in that town Bankole and I went
to," Harry said. "There was nothing. Not even work
for room and board. I asked all over town. No one
even knew of anything."
I frowned. "The towns around here are all close to
the highway," I said. "They must get a lot of people
passing through, looking for a place to settle-- or
maybe a place to rob, rape, kill. The locals wouldn't
welcome new people. They wouldn't trust anyone
they didn't know."
Harry looked from me to Bankole.
"She's right," Bankole said. "My brother-in-law had a
hard time before people began to get used to him,
and he moved up here before things got so bad. He
knew plumbing, carpentry, electrical work, and motor
vehicle mechanics. Of course, it didn't help that he
was black. Being white might help you win people
over faster than he did. I think, though, that any
serious money we make here will come from the
land. Food is gold these days, and we can grow food
here. We have guns to protect ourselves, so we can
sell our crops in nearby towns or on the highway."
"If we survive long enough to grow anything to sell,"
Mora muttered. "If there's enough water, if the bugs
don't eat our crops, if no one burns us out the way
they did those people over the hill, if, if, if!"
Allie sighed. "Shit, it's if, if, if anywhere you go. This
place isn't so bad." She was sitting on her
sleepsack, holding the sleeping Justin's head in her
lap. As she spoke, she stroked the boy's hair. It
occurred to me, not for the first time, that no matter
how tough Allie tried to seem, that little boy was the
key to her. Children were the keys to most of the
adults present.
"There are no guarantees anywhere," I agreed. "But
if we're willing to work, our chances are good here.
I've got some seed in my pack. We can buy more.
What we have to do at this point is more like
gardening than farming. Everything will have to be
done by hand-- composting, watering, weeding,
picking worms or slugs or whatever off the crops and
killing them one by one if that's what it takes. As for
water, if our well still has water in it now, in October,
I don't think we have to worry about it going dry on
us. Not this year, anyway."
"And if people threaten us or our crop, we kill them.
That's all. We kill them, or they kill us. If we work
together, we can defend ourselves, and we can
protect the kids. A community's first responsibility is
to protect its children-- the ones we have now and
the ones we will have."
There was silence for a while, people digesting,
perhaps measuring it against what they had to look
forward to if they left this place and continued north.
"We should decide," I said. "We have building and
planting to do here. We have to buy more food,
more seed and tools." It was time for directness:
"Allie, will you stay?"
She looked across the dead fire at me, stared hard
at me as though she hoped to see something on my
face that would give her an answer.
"What seed do you have?" she asked.
I drew a deep breath. "Most of it is summer stuff--
corn, peppers, sunflowers, eggplant, melons,
tomatoes, beans, squash. But I have some winter
things; peas, carrots, cabbage, broccoli, winter
squash, onions, asparagus, herbs, several kinds of
greens. . . . We can buy more, and we've got the
stuff left in this garden plus what we can harvest
from the local oak, pine, and citrus trees. I brought
tree seeds too: more oak, citrus, peach, pear,
nectarine, almond, walnut, a few others. They won't
do us any good for a few years, but they're a hell of
an investment in the future."
"So is a kid," Allie said. "I didn't think I would be
dumb enough to say this, but yeah, I'll stay. I want to
build something too. I never had a chance to build
anything before."
Allie, and Justin were a yes, then.
"Harry? Zahra?"
"Of course we're staying," Zahra said.
Harry frowned. "Wait a minute. We don't have to."
"I know. But we are. If we can make a community
like Lauren says and not have to hire out to
strangers and trust them when they shouldn't be
trusted, then we should do it. If you grew up where I
did, you'd know we should."
"Harry," I said, "I've known you all my life. You're the
closest thing to a brother that I have left. You aren't
really thinking about leaving, are you?" It wasn't the
world's best argument. He had been both cousin and
lover to Joanne, and he'd let her go when he could
have gone with her.
"I want something of my own," he said. "Land, a
home, maybe a store or a small farm. Something
that's mine. This land is Bankole's."
"Yes," Bankole said. "And you'll be getting the use of
it rent free-- and all the water you need. What are
those things going to cost you farther north-- if you
can get them at all farther north-- if you can get
yourself out of California."
"But there's no work here!"
"Not to work in those places. The women warned
me."
"I've heard of places like that," Bankole said. "They
were supposed to provide jobs for that
northward-flowing river of people. President
Donner's all for them. The workers are more
throwaways than slaves. They breathe toxic fumes
or drink contaminated water or get caught in
unshielded machinery. . . . It doesn't matter. They're
easy to replace-- thousands of jobless for every job."
"Borderworks," Mora said. "Not all of them are that
bad. I heard some pay cash wages, not company
script."
"Is that where you want to go?" I asked. "Or do you
want to stay here?"
He looked down at Doe who was still nibbling at a
piece of sweet potato. "I want to stay here," he said,
surprising me. "I'm not sure you have a hope in hell
of building anything here, but you're just crazy
enough to make it work." And if it didn't work, he'd
be no worse off than he was when he escaped
slavery. He could rob someone and continue his
journey north. Or maybe not. I'd been thinking about
Mora. He did a lot to keep people away from him--
keep them from knowing too much about him, keep
them from seeing what he was feeling, or that he
was feeling anything-- a male sharer, desperate to
hide his terrible vulnerability? Sharing would be
harder on a man. What would my brothers have
been like as sharers? Odd that I hadn't thought of
that before.
"I'm glad you're staying," I said. "We need you." I
looked at Travis and Natividad. "We need you guys,
too. "You're staying, aren't you?"
"You know we are," Travis said. "Although I think I
agree more than I want to with Mora. I'm not sure we
have a prayer of succeeding here."
"We'll have whatever we can shape," I said. And I
turned to face Harry. He and Zahra had been
whispering together. Now he looked at me.
"Mora's right," he said. "You're nuts."
I sighed.
"But this is a crazy time," he continued. "Maybe
you're what the time needs-- or what we need. I'll
stay. I may be sorry for it, but I'll stay."
Now the decision is acknowledged, and we can stop
arguing about it. Tomorrow we'll begin to prepare a
winter garden. Next week, several of us will go into
town to buy tools, more seed, supplies. Also, it's
time we began to build a shelter. There are trees
enough in the area, and we can dig into the ground
and into the hills. Mora says he's built slave cabins
before. Says he's eager to build something better,
something fit for human beings. Besides, this far
north and this near the coast, we might get some
rain.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2027
Today we had a funeral for Bankole's dead-- the five
people who died in the fire. The cops never came. At
last Bankole has decided that they aren't going to
come, and that it's time his sister and her family had
a decent burial. We collected all the bones that we
could find, and yesterday, Natividad wrapped them
in a shawl that she had knitted years ago. It was the
most beautiful thing she owned.
"A thing like that should serve the living," Bankole
said when she offered it.
"You are living," Natividad said. "I like you. I wish I
could have met your sister."
He looked at her for a while. Then he took the shawl
and hugged her. Then, beginning to cry, he went off
by himself into the trees, out of our sight. I let him
alone for an hour or so, then went after him.
I found him, sitting on a fallen log, wiping his face. I
sat with him for some time, saying nothing. After a
while, he got up, waited for me to stand, then
headed back toward our camp.
"I would like to give them a grove of oak trees," I
said. "Trees are better than stone-- life
commemorating life.
He glanced back at me. "All right."
"Bankole?"
He stopped, looked at me with an expression I could
not read.
"None of us knew her," I said. "I wish we had. I wish
I had, no matter how much I would have surprised
her."
He managed a smile. "She would have looked at
you, then looked at me, then, right in front of you, I
think she would have said, `Well, there's no fool like
an old fool.' Once she got that out of her system, I
think she would have gotten to like you."
"Do you think she could stand. . .or forgive company
now?"
"No." He drew me to his side and put one arm
around me. "Human beings will survive of course.
Some other countries will survive. Maybe they'll
absorb what's left of us. Or maybe we'll just break up
into a lot of little states quarreling and fighting with
each other over whatever crumbs are left. That's
almost happened now with states shutting
themselves off from one another, treating state lines
as national borders. As bright as you are, I don't
think you understand-- I don't think you can
understand what we've lost. Perhaps that's a
blessing."
"God is Change," I said.
"Olamina, that doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything. Everything!"
He sighed. "You know, as bad as things are, we
haven't even hit bottom yet. Starvation, disease,
drug damage, and mob rule have only begun.
Federal, state, and local governments still exist-- in
name at least-- and sometimes they manage to do
something more than collect taxes and send in the
military. And the money is still good. That amazes
me. However much more you need of it to buy
anything these days, it is still accepted. That may be
a hopeful sign-- or perhaps it's only more evidence
of what I just said: We haven't hit bottom yet."
"Well, the group of us here doesn't have to sink any
lower," I said.
He shook his shaggy head, his hair, beard, and
serious expression making him look more than a
little like an old picture I used to have of Frederick
Douglass.
"I wish I believed that," he said. Perhaps it was his
grief talking. "I don't think we have a hope in hell of
succeeding here."
I slipped my arm around him. "Let's go back," I said.
"We've got work to do."
So today we remembered the friends and the family
members we've lost. We spoke our individual
memories and quoted Bible passages, Earthseed
verses, and bits of songs and poems that were
favorites of the living or the dead.
Then we buried our dead and we planted oak trees.
Afterward, we sat together and talked and ate a
meal and decided to call this place Acorn.
A sower went out to sow his seed: and as he
sowed, some fell by the way side; and it was
trodden down, and the fowls of the air
devoured it. And some fell upon a rock; and
as soon as it was sprung up, it withered
away because it lacked moisture. And some
fell among thorns; and the thorns sprang up
with it, and choked it. And other fell on good
ground, and sprang up, and bare fruit an
hundredfold.
The Bible
Authorized King James Version
St. Luke 8: 5-8